


The Fall of the House of Grabiner

by AddioKira



Series: Eliza Moon [1]
Category: Magical Diary
Genre: F/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-09-29
Updated: 2014-09-29
Packaged: 2018-02-19 04:59:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 27
Words: 85,682
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2375504
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AddioKira/pseuds/AddioKira
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Eliza Moon has had a dull summer vacation from Iris Academy, alleviated only by letters from her husband. But when the letters suddenly stop, and a strange birthday present arrives from Professor Potsdam, she is swept into a new adventure that reveals a dark secret behind her husband's illustrious family.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Alan slides the blade of his boxcutter out of its sheath with his thumb, and grins. "One more and that's it for the day," he says, and plunges the blade into the tape holding the last box shut.

I finish arranging a set of multicolored candles on the showroom shelf, and walk over. "What's this one?"

"Looks like..." Alan says, squatting in front of the box and reaching inside. "Handbags?"

I reach in and pull a squashy object out of the box. "Little ones. Like, change purses?" The bag I'm holding is about the size of my hand and made out of a shiny scarlet material, decorated with blue Chinese characters and a blue zipper at the top. "Pretty."

"Flashy," Alan says, wrinkling his nose. "Should we put them next to the pens?"

"I guess. Can they stand, do you think?" I open the little bag's zipper and spread my fingers in its interior, trying to flatten the bottom so it will stand on its own.

"We could prop them up against each other, a dazzling rainbow of little handbags!" Alan waves his hands in the air as he suggests this, and I giggle. "Little cheap faux-silk handbags," he continues with distaste, "I don't know what's wrong with sticking with stationery." He reaches into the box and grabs a fistful of bags. That's when I notice a huge, black multi-legged monster emerge from the box of handbags and scuttle onto the floor.

In the first flush of panic I back away, bracing my feet on the carpet, and begin the complicated combination of hand motion and incantation needed to zap the thing with a bolt of lightning. But halfway through I stop, hands in midair, and choke back the words.  _You're in an office - an OFFICE and you can't use magic!_

Alan turns around and sees me standing there with my hands in front of my face. "What?"

I point at the thing now skittering its way across the showroom rug and try to speak, but all that comes out is a squeak.

Alan follows my finger to the rapidly moving creature, and when he sees it, he lets out a shriek and tosses his handfuls of bags in the air, bounding for a chair at the other end of the room and standing on it. I race to join him, cowering into the wall half in fear and half in shame. Without magic I'm helpless - useless - just a little girl, afraid.

"What in God's name is going on in here?" Danielle pokes her head around the door to the showroom and sees us cringing in the corner. I point at the creature and squeak again.

Danielle looks. "It's just a cockroach."

Both Alan and I gawk at her. "Just a cockroach? Look at the size of it!" I manage to sputter.

"Oh for-" she cuts off, stomps back to the reception desk, and comes back with a fistful of tissues. She chases the roach into a corner and smashes the tissues into it - moving quickly, considering she's eight months pregnant. "You two are such babies," she says, lifting the tissues to show the squashed bits of cockroach held within. "She's only sixteen but Alan, you're thirty, what's your excuse?"

"Uch don't wave that around, it's _disgusting_ ," says Alan.

Danielle rolls her eyes and tosses the tissue into the trash. "I was coming to see if you'd cover the phones, Eliza," she said. "I have to run to the bank real quick, just ten minutes."

Alan's stepping down from his chair. "And leave me to unpack that? There could be, like, dozens or hundreds of those things in there!"

"Yeah, I'll cover," I say, scooping up my own handbag and jogging out of the room after Danielle.

"Eliza!" Alan whines. I grin at him and wave, my roach-inspired terror diminished by the creature's demise.

"Have fun!" I say, slipping out of the showroom and into the reception area.

I settle myself at the desk and watch Danielle walk - well, waddle a little - out of the office and into the elevator. Once she's gone and I'm alone, I rest my chin on my arms and sigh. It would be so much easier if I was allowed to use magic at work. I could have roasted that stupid roach, or teleported it out of the showroom and straight into one of the toilets or something before Alan had even seen it. But instead I was completely helpless before the most terrifying creature on earth - worse than hodags, even - and had to get rescued by a pregnant receptionist. But, like all witches and wizards, I'm compelled to keep magic a secret from those who can't use it, or risk losing my powers and being thrown out of the magical community for the rest of my life.

The phone rings and I snatch it up - bad form to let it ring twice.

"Good-afternoon-Wei-International-Stationers-this-is-Eliza-how-may-I-help-you?" I've said the phrase so many times it comes out in a rapid patter, as though I were singing Gilbert and Sullivan.

"Hello sweetheart, I was hoping I'd get you." A familiar voice with a drawling Boston accent on the end of the line. I have to resist heaving a sigh.

"Oh, hello Mr. Currie, how are you this afternoon? Did you get your shipment?" I hate it when Mr. Currie calls me "sweetheart," but I can't be impolite to him, as he's one of the Weis' biggest customers. He sells a respectable array of their imported stationery from his shop on Newbury Street in Boston, and can be relied upon to place a hefty order every week. Of course, that means he calls at least twice a day, and mostly he likes to talk to me.

"I keep telling you to call me David," he says with a laugh. "And yeah, I got it, but I'm missing those gel-ink pens, do you know if they're coming, sweetheart?"

"Oh - you know, I think there was a problem with those, they came to us late, so we had to send them separately. I'm pretty sure Angela sent them out already, let me look up the tracking number." I start tapping at the computer.

"You're a lifesaver, darling," says Mr. Currie. "Did I hear it's your last day, though?"

"Mm-hm," I respond, tapping out the complicated series of numbers and letters into the tracking website. "A few weeks off before I get back to school."

"Yeah, when are you going to tell me what school you go to? You make it sound like a huge secret."

It _is_ a secret - I go to a boarding school to learn magic, after all.

"Sorry Mr. Currie, I can't have you call me every day while I'm at school, I have to study."

"Oh, well, I'll miss you. Are you coming back next summer?"

"We'll see. Oh - got it, yes, the pens will arrive first thing tomorrow morning. Will that be okay?"

"Perfect. I'll put in a good word for you if you want to come back next year, you know, I'm the Weis' best customer."

"That you are, sir. And just a reminder - the Weis are going to branch out into small gifts in addition to their core stationery line, so if you'd care to stop by the showroom to see some of the new items on display, we'd love to see you." This last phrase is a complete lie, but I'm required to remind all of the customers of the Weis' new inventory when they call.

"I'll keep it in mind, but without you there, what would be the point, sweetheart?"

Yuck. "Is there anything else you need, sir?"

"Just that you call me David. Well, best of luck at school; talk to you next year I hope."

"Thanks, good-bye," I say and hang up the phone. Maybe that will be the last time I have to deal with Mr. Currie's calls - now that will be a relief. Other than dealing with him, I've enjoyed my summer job working as an assistant to the other employees at the Weis' office. I'd helped to place orders, answer phones, pack small sample shipments, and keep track of inventory. The best part was arranging the showroom of samples with Alan. But I'm looking forward to a few weeks of quiet and rest at home before returning to Iris Academy and resuming my study of magic.

Danielle isn't back in ten minutes, or in twenty, and the phone doesn't ring again. Manning a reception desk that doesn't get phone calls is deathly boring, so I open my personal e-mail account on Danielle's computer. Just one e-mail - a short one - from Minnie Cochran, last year's freshman class president. She's been e-mailing all summer with ideas for new fundraisers for next year's freshman class initiation, and seems gleeful about it now that we're sophomores, and not the ones being initiated. I've been slow to reply - my memories of the initiation aren't great, and Minnie seems happy to be doing most of the work so far. No e-mails from Virginia or Ellen either - Ellen's at school for the summer, where technology is generally forbidden, and I don't think Virginia's magical family even knows what a computer is (Minnie, on the other hand, is oddly technology - savvy for a witch). I log out and stare at the blank screen for a little while. No Danielle, no phone calls. So I fish in my bag and take out a letter from my husband.

It's odd being married at sixteen, even if you're not married to one of your school professors, which I am. A "marriage of convenience" doesn't quite cover the circumstances, as we'd only done it after I'd been attacked by a spirit that would have-what, sucked out my soul? Killed me? I wasn't quite clear on the details - had I not joined Professor Grabiner's family immediately. So now I'm married, and can't get divorced until the end of January, next year.

It wasn't a pleasant occasion. Professor Grabiner was already famous as the most prickly teacher at Iris Academy, and I'd already gotten on his bad side simply for being a wildseed - that is, a witch born to non-magical parents. He'd been furious at the necessity of the marriage, and had done his best to avoid me as often as possible - no mean feat, as I'd been serving as the freshman class treasurer under his direct supervision. And needless to say, he didn't so much as touch me, even refusing to kiss me at the marriage ceremony itself.

But over the course of the year, we started getting more comfortable with each other, to the point where we were able to hold a decent conversation. He was prickly, yes, but also interesting, intelligent, witty, and at times, disarmingly funny. And at the end of the year, when I admitted that I might have a bit of a crush on him after all, he'd kissed me. Just once, very briefly, and with no ulterior motive, but it had been my first kiss and was therefore significant. Afterwards he'd said that we might be able to write to each other over the summer.

I'd agonized over that first letter - I'd never written one to anyone other than my grandparents before, and had no idea what to say that didn't seem prosaic and stilted. I couldn't even talk about magic, as I was spending the summer in a completely magic-free environment. I was living with my parents - who'd been bewitched into forgetting that I had magical talent after my first day of school - and working in a non-magical stationery importer's office. How could any of that possibly interest an older, accomplished magician?

I'd spent a week and a half scribbling on, then crumpling up papers from a set of stationery I'd been given from the office, when his first letter came - written on heavy-stocked, cream-colored paper and in a tiny, precise script. It was short and neutral - just a bit about the nicer summer weather in the Vermont mountains and a thought about a book he was reading on an alternate teleportation theory - but it gave me something to respond to, rather than having to think up an entire letter on my own. As the months of May and June went by, I received and sent increasingly longer letters about once a week, and I began to feel more comfortable telling him about life at home, my job, and the mundane little details that made up my summer vacation. But in mid-July, the letters stopped coming. At first I told myself he was just busy, the school year would be coming up at the beginning of September, he must be planning lessons and examinations as well as conducting his own research projects on the side. But after three weeks with no letter, I'm anxious. Had I offended him in my last letter? I couldn't think how, though he had been prone to bouts of pique (sometimes provoked, sometimes not) during the last school year. Even then, he'd always calmed down and apologized within a day or so. I couldn't begin to guess at what could be so terrible that he would stop writing entirely.

I'd taken to keeping the letters in a zippered pouch in my handbag, just in case my mother decided to go through my room. The content of the letters was innocuous enough, and I'd told her when I'd received the first envelope that it was a friend from school who was writing (the handful of letters I received from Virginia and Ellen bolstered my claim), but I didn't want to take the risk of her recognizing his name (which he never put on the envelope return address, probably for that very reason). In the past few letterless weeks, I'd taken to reading and re-reading them until I had each practically memorized, debating with myself whether I should just write to him again, and ask what was going on. But to do so seemed oddly presumptuous, and my attempts only resulted in more crumpled stationery.

So instead, I'm stuck at an empty reception desk, smoothing the paper out on my thigh, re-reading the very last letter he'd sent.

_Eliza,_

_I was pleased to receive your last letter. It is rather troublesome to spend all of one's time unable to use magic, I agree. I have considered lobbying to Professor Potsdam to require students from non-magical families to remain at school during the summer vacation - a rather outmoded concept in this day of air conditioning and de-agriculturalized society, don't you think? - but consider, it may lead to a slightly unfair advantage for those in magical families who don't receive formalized education over the summer, not to mention an inordinate amount of additional work for me, horror of horrors._

_Thank you for your inquiry with regards to my latest proposed publication. Your interest is most gratifying though I'm well aware that a lengthy discussion of the intricacies of the more esoteric black magic theories may mean little to you at your level of education. Suffice to say that my initial manuscript will be completed in the next week, at which time I'll be free to spend the remainder of the year fretting over whether I'll receive the requisite funding to continue. I don't expect to hear from the council until next January or so. The wheels of academic publishing, as they say, grind slowly but exceedingly fine._

_Unfortunately, I must end this letter here, as I have an unusual number of appointments to attend to today - an anomaly in what has otherwise been a peaceful summer, and I hardly need add, a rather unwelcome one. I promise a longer letter next week; until such time I remain_

_Yours,_

_H._

The promise remained unkept, but the valedictation - what to make of that, I wondered, for the twentieth time in as many days. Yours, H. "Yours." It's a perfectly common way to end a letter, I tell myself, it doesn't mean anything. But still, seeing it written down on paper, holding it in my hand, it's not difficult to imagine it could mean something, even if I can't say precisely what.

"Hey!"

Startled, I look up to see Danielle, her arms full of papers and a long flat box, pushing the double doors of the office open with her butt. I shove my letter back into my bag and jump up to get the door.

"Sorry I'm late! I decided to wait for the mail." She heaves the box and papers onto the top of the desk and starts to sort them. "You got something," she says, lifting a large, cream colored envelope out of the stack. "Mmm, nice paper, what is this, 60 pound?" She laughs. "I never thought I'd judge people by the envelope before I started working here." She hands me the envelope.

There's no return address, but also no mistaking the thick, heavy paper and the tiny script in which my name and work address have been written on the envelope. It's my letter, my promised letter, three weeks late.

"It's not from Dave Currie, is it? I've been telling him to leave you alone, if he's not careful, I'm going to be jealous."

"No, it's from..." I'm scrutinizing the large set of three stamps on the right upper corner, wondering why I suddenly feel uneasy, when I see the postmark and blurt it aloud in surprise. "London!"

"Huh," says Danielle, without much interest. "They're lucky it got here today, before you're gone for good. And speaking of which..." She grins and whips open the box that had been underneath the papers, revealing not more mail, but a dozen cupcakes, piled high with brightly colored icing. As if on cue, Alan, Angela, Mr. and Mrs. Wei, and the rest of the office employees burst into the reception area, shouting "surprise!"

"Oh my god, look at her! We scared her half to death," shouts Alan, triumphant. "Come on, doll, pick a cupcake."

"Oh, wow, thanks so much everyone," I start, forcing myself to smile.

"Come on, pick one," Danielle insists. "Are you going to keep my baby waiting for cake? Monster." This, at least, gets me laughing, and I pick a pink-frosted cake that looks likely to be raspberry.

"Happy last day, and thank you for your help this summer," says Mrs. Wei, giving me a quick hug.

"And," says Alan, sneaking beside me to place a candle in my cupcake, "happy birthday!"

"It's not 'til Monday!" I protest, as Alan lights the candle with a cigarette lighter.

"Are you going to let that stop us from having cupcakes?" asks Alan in mock-shock. "You really are a monster." And I have to laugh again, and blow out my candle as the others swarm around the desk to claim a cupcake.

It's not until after the well wishes, the last handshakes, hugs, and farewells, not until I'm safely in my car in the dark of the parking garage that I get a good look at the envelope and realize what was so unsettling about it earlier. It's the handwriting - in the familiar jet ink and almost impossibly small - but it's neither neat nor precise. Actually, it looks as though it was written quickly and carelessly. I rip the envelope open and ease the letter out, realizing that he hadn't kept his promise of a long letter after all - it's only a single page folded over, and just a few lines. The writing in the letter is even worse than on the envelope - it's nearly scrawled, and there's a splatter of ink at the end of the second line.

_E-_

_Don't have time to explain now. You'll receive a communication from Professor Potsdam within the day. It's imperative that you follow her instructions exactly - she'll take care of any resistance from your family._

_I'll explain in detail when I see you next._

_H._

I read the letter again, and then a third time, but it makes just as little sense as it did on the first read-through. But the feeling of unease that I'd hoped would be dispelled by reading the contents of the letter hasn't gone, it's deepened into a sense of dread. Hieronymous Grabiner, splatter ink on a letter? A letter postmarked from London, capital of the country in which he'd refused to set foot for over a decade? The only explanation I can think of is that something has gone terribly, terribly wrong.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Fair warning: spoilers for the novel Jane Eyre.

"Hi-i," I call as I walk into the house.

"Have a good last day?" Mom's in the kitchen, accompanied by the smell of what has to be one of her kitchen experiments. I cross the hall to see her standing over the stove, layering ingredients into a casserole dish.

"Yeah, they stuffed me with cupcakes, what's for dinner?"

"Shepherd's pie, I think, but I didn't have any lamb so I used turkey. And no peas, so I just chopped up some bell pepper. It's green, anyway. Oh, and the potatoes sprouted so I defrosted the puff pastry and put it on top."

"Mom, you know Dad hates it when you do kitchen experiments. Anyway I thought he was saving the puff pastry for vol-au-vents."

"Then he can come home and make vol-au-vents himself, does he think I don't have anything better to do?"

I kiss her cheek and then, because I feel a little guilty, I say "It'll be delicious, Mom." Actually it's nicer when Dad cooks; he's a great reader of gourmet cooking magazines, but since he's a lawyer he usually gets home too late to cook dinner. Mom's a teacher at the local elementary school and has the summer off. She loves to cook, but has interesting ideas about which ingredients should go with what, and doesn't shy away from bizarre experiments. Some of them turn out to be delicious - her chicken-pesto-courgette potpie is now a regular staple at Thanksgiving - but most of them are barely edible. I think Dad enjoys complaining about them more than he enjoys cooking, and sometimes I wonder if that's the secret of their (so far) happy marriage.

It's been easier getting along with my parents this summer than it has been for the entire year I've been at school. Both my winter and spring breaks last year were horribly awkward, as my parents had no idea that I was going to school to learn about magic. I couldn't tell them about it, so we really didn't have anything to talk about. Being at home for the summer, though, has gotten me used to what I can and can't tell them, and we can operate at a comfortable level.

Well, almost.

"Did I get any mail?"

"Oh yes - something from school I think, it's on the desk." Mom starts sprinkling a mixture of cayenne and Parmesan cheese over the top of the puff pastry, while I dig through the pile of unopened junk mail that coats her kitchen desk. One big white envelope with the Iris Academy school crest lies under a stack of pizza coupons, bills and catalogues.

I hear the front door open and Dad shout, "Working girl!"

"Hi Dad," I say, digging my finger into the crease of the envelope.

"Did you have a good last day?"

"Yes-they-stuffed-me-with-cupcakes-what's-for-dinner?" A rectangular paper falls from the envelope and flutters to the floor as I unfold the notepaper inside.

"Nothing good from the smell of it," Dad says, entering the kitchen. "Is that my puff pastry?"

"It was almost to the expiration date!" yells Mom.

"Have you got a letter from another one of your school friends?" Dad swoops into the kitchen to plant a kiss on my cheek.

"From Headmistress Potsdam, actually," I say, scanning the letter. "It's shepard's pie with turkey and green pepper."

"It's only shepherd's pie if it's lamb; if it's beef it's cottage pie; so what's turkey then?" Dad strides to the stove to peer at the casserole dish. "I was going to make vol-au-vents."

"You should have made them when you bought the puff pastry last month," snaps Mom. "Eliza, what's the letter? Is it about your grades?"

"No, it's-" I stutter and then recover. "I'll read it out loud, okay?"

_Dear Miss Moon,_

_I have to apologize for the short notice, but I hope you'll be able to take advantage of this incredible opportunity. Iris Academy has been invited to participate in a week-long symposium with several of its European sister-schools in London this summer, which includes one student for each class, as well as instructors. I had originally asked your class president Minnie Cochran to attend on behalf of the rising sophomore class, but unfortunately she's taken ill this week and won't be able to go. I'd be thrilled if you could attend in her place. Expenses will be covered by the school. I enclose a ticket from Boston to London for Monday morning. You can call me at the Academy's general phone number and let me know your decision._

_Please come,_

_P. Potsdam, Headmistress._

"London? This Monday?" Mom stands with the oven door gaping open, the casserole forgotten.

"Uh," I start, thoughts racing. I pick up the paper that fell to the floor - it's a plane ticket in my name for a flight to London on Monday morning. My birthday.

_Imperative that you follow her instructions exactly_

"Yeah, London on Monday, this Monday,"

_Please come_

"can I go?"

"London!" Dad exclaims, his eyes saucer-wide. "I went to London my senior year of high school. I ran straight into-"

"George Harrison," Mom recites with him.

And then all three of us: "I mean, literally ran into him!" Mom and I cackle, but Dad keeps on telling his favorite story.

"He knocked me down, and I thought he was going to just walk by but he helped me up and brushed me off-"

"And you told him what a fan you were," continues Mom.

"And he signed your map of London!" I say. The map is, of course, framed and hangs above his desk in the study.

"Best wishes, George Harrison," Dad finished, starry-eyed. "It was the greatest day of my life."

"Better than our wedding day, or the day Eliza was born?" asks Mom, slamming the oven door behind the casserole.

"Oh come  _on_ , Margaret," Dad says, putting his arms around her. And all three of us chorus together, "It was  _George Harrison_!" We all dissolve in laughter and Dad kisses Mom in a lingering way, all complaints about the kitchen experiment forgotten. And I'm thinking _is this a marriage? Is this how it should be?_

I go over the letter again. Minnie's not ill, and she didn't mention a trip to London in the e-mail she sent me today. This has to be the "communication" Professor Grabiner meant in his letter, and apparently I've got to do what it says, it's  _imperative_.

The turkey shepherd's pie turns out to be a rousing success, brightening everyone's mood, and my suggestion that it be called "turkish pie" is unanimously accepted.

"So," I venture while we're all on our third helping, "can I go to London?"

"Oh, well," starts Mom, "it is a good opportunity... and your headmistress is supervising, you said?"

"Yeah, and just three other students, one for each current class, so she won't be overwhelmed or anything. It's just a school symposium."

"Symposium means 'drinking party' in Greek, did you know that?" says Dad, shoveling a forkful of turkish pie into his mouth.

"Yeah but it's not like that, it's just a meeting of schools, I'm not going drinking," I say, and can't help the pleading sound that enters into my voice. "It's a chance to meet students from different countries, I really want to go!"

"It sounds nice," says Mom, "but your birthday..."

"I can't think of a better birthday present than a free trip to London," says Dad, his usual overprotective instincts apparently overwhelmed by his nostalgia for his own trip to the United Kingdom.

"Well, Eliza, if you really want to go..." starts Mom.

_I'll explain in detail when I see you next._

London postmark.

I'll see him there.

"Yes, please Mom, can I go?"

And that's how I find myself on an airplane over the Atlantic on my seventeenth birthday, on the way from Logan to Heathrow, and nearly giddy over the thought that I'll see my husband in a matter of hours.

It's not my first international flight, and I know that the waiting in the tiny seat spaces left to coach-class passengers is nearly unbearable. To soothe myself, I made sure to bring my favorite book, _Jane Eyre_ , along for the flight. I've always managed to lose myself in the story of the brave and clever but plain governess who wins the heart of the temperamental, sarcastic Mr. Rochester of Thornfield Hall. Usually beginning the story is like sinking into a warm bath, but find the plot a little disconcerting this time around. Maybe it's hitting a bit too close to home, I consider, but after a look at the movies playing on the flight (a thriller that ought to have been set during the Cold War but was retrofitted to the War on Terror, a romantic comedy about a female CEO giving up her career after finding a man to love, and a children's film about friendly but irritatingly musical elves), I decide to go back to the book.

Just as Mr. Mason interrupts the wedding between Mr. Rochester and Jane with the news that Mr. Rochester's first wife wasn't dead after all, but mad and locked away in the attic of Thornfield Hall, the aircraft captain announces the final descent into Heathrow. By now the summer sunlight has turned gold and tinged the clouds that surround us red and pink - six hours after leaving Boston at eight in the morning, and it's already evening here. It's a bit like time travel, flying so far.

Descending from the clouds into the crowds that fill Heathrow is a jolt to the senses. The airport is huge and labyrinthine, with hoards of people bustling about, trying to make their connecting flights. I alternately fight and squeeze my way through the shifting mass, thinking grimly that a "transport others" spell would be extremely helpful about now. Once my passport is stamped, I glance up, squinting, trying to find signs that will point me to the baggage claim, which is where Professor Potstam told me she'd meet me after I'd landed.

"Don't worry, little cygnet," she'd said on the phone when I called her to let her know I had accepted her invitation. "I'll be right at the carousel, you won't miss me!" Her cheer was a bit off-putting, but it was completely in character. I'd never seen her dour for more than five minutes at a stretch; even at my farce of a wedding to Professor Grabiner she'd grinned and fussed as though the marriage of a sixteen-year-old girl to her thirty-something year old professor should be a genuinely happy occasion, rather than one that would have prompted most school officials to call the police.

I struggle up and down escalators and fight my way through crowds to the carousel where the luggage from my flight is circling in a sea of jostling bodies and snatching hands. I have to dive under a middle aged couple to seize the handle of my small red suitcase as it slides by. I'm heaving it away from the crush when I hear the familiar trilling voice.

"Eliza! Yoo-hoo!"

Professor Potsdam's walking toward me. Instead of the diaphanous robes she usually favors while at school, she's wearing a shocking pink summer suit and matching stiletto heels, her pale hair streaming behind her. She was right-I couldn't miss her if I tried.

She seizes me in a bone-crunching hug. "So glad you could come, duckling! Now come on, driver's waiting." She snatches my suitcase and strides off, leaving me to jog behind her.

"Professor!" I pant. "Can you just tell me what-"

She turns back with a finger on her lips. "Shhh! Not with all these people!"

The faster we get out of here, the faster I'll find out what's going on, I decide, so I just weave my way through the crowd as quickly as I can.

At one of the exits, Professor Potsdam stops in front of a man in a black suit and cap, who's loading an enormous pile of matching shocking pink luggage onto a trolley. "Just add this one, dear," Potsdam says to him, tossing my suitcase on top of the lot. "All ready now?"

We exit to the curb, and the driver begins to load the bags into a shiny black sedan while Professor Potsdam and I climb into the back seat.

"Here we are, dear, isn't this exciting?" Potsdam gushes. "It's been years since I've been to London, have you ever been?"

"No, just to Paris once, with my parents," I say, looking with curiosity at the steering wheel on the right-hand side of the car. "There isn't really a symposium, is there ma'am?"

"No, of course not," she says with a giggle.

"Then what-"

"Shh!" The driver opens the door and gets in. "Not now, dear, there'll be plenty of time to talk when we get there."

"Get where?" I ask with rising desperation.

"Hieronymous' house, of course; it's right near Hyde Park, you'll simply love it."

"You've been there?"

"Once or twice," she says with a wink, then changes the subject.

The car makes its way through a complicated series of ramps and streets, winding into the heart of London. It's full dark now, and the lights of the city throw a great, misty penumbra over the buildings and into the night sky. Even at night the traffic's stop-and-start, so it takes over forty-five minutes for us to make the journey. Professor Potsdam chatters constantly about her flight, the lovely weather, and how happy she is to see me, but says nothing to elucidate what we're both doing here in the first place. I start the drive trying to contribute to the conversation, but as the car creeps further into the city, an excited-sick feeling rises from my stomach into my throat, and all I can manage are a few words and nods. I look out the window instead, watching the blazing white shops, the orange of street-lanterns, and the aqua glow of television sets behind curtains as we pass from street to street.

Finally we stop at one darkish street corner, and Professor Potsdam calls "here we are!" We all exit the car. The driver (who hasn't said a word through the entire trip) crosses to the trunk to retrieve our luggage, while Professor Potsdam bustles up a small stoop to a narrow door that I would have overlooked otherwise. "Come on dear, come on," she says, and knocks.

A moment passes, and then the door is opened by a plump woman in her mid-twenties, wearing a plain white blouse and dark skirt. "Good evening!" sings Professor Potsdam. "We're expected."

"Oh - yes madam, good evening," says the woman, and holds the door wider for us to pass through. Professor Potsdam charges down the hall as if she owns the place, the woman scurrying after her, and me trailing behind, taking in the interior of the house. It has a small foyer with a staircase, and a narrow hall with closed doors on either side, and is elegantly but sparsely furnished. Professor Potsdam stops by one door, behind which I can hear someone speaking in a deep, resonant voice. My stomach drops.

"Madam, he's on the telephone just now, so may I show you into-"

"Nonsense, he needs to see us immediately, come  _on_ , Eliza!" Potsdam says, shoving the door open with one hand, and pulling me into the room with the other.

It's a sitting room with large windows that face into the street at the front of the house. And he's pacing in front of a writing desk with a mobile phone pressed to his ear and a sheaf of papers in his other hand. He's not wearing his wizard's robes and hat, but a charcoal-grey suit - which is too plain and fits him too well to be anything but extremely expensive. Otherwise, he's just the same as when I'd seen him on the last day of term - the same shaggy black hair, hawkish nose, and irritated expression.

"I gave you all that information on Thursday, I don't see what's so difficult - no, no, I told you, the  _second_  file - do you understand I need this finished and ready to sign by tomorrow morning?" He turns toward the door as we enter, covering the bottom of the mobile. "Not  _now_ ," he starts, and then he sees me. He freezes mid-pace, expression flashing from irritation to shock. His eyes flick to Professor Potsdam, to me, then back to Professor Potsdam.

"What the hell is  _she_  doing  _here_?" he shouts at her.

"Surprise!" says Professor Potsdam.


	3. Chapter 3

It's only Professor Potsdam's arm held firmly around my shoulders that keeps me from bolting into the hallway and back to the car. Professor Grabiner continues to stare at both of us until his mobile buzzes with the voice of whoever is on the line. He lifts the phone back to his ear and turns away, tossing papers onto the desk. "Yes, what? Sorry. All right, that's fine. First thing tomorrow morning, mind. Thank you." He clicks the phone off and stuffs it into his jacket pocket, then turns back to where we're standing.

"Petunia, may I have a word with you, please," he says, and the way he says "please" clearly means "now." I briefly wonder whether he ought to be talking to his boss like that, but Professor Potsdam just smiles and says "Of course!" He walks over, grips her arm, and steers her out of the room, into the hall, and then into one of the doors opposite, which he slams behind them. "Have you completely lost your mind?" I hear him start, before another door slams, and they're both out of earshot. I'm left alone in the sitting room, wondering what on earth I should do next.

"Lord, they don't waste much time, do they?" says the plump woman, who had been standing out in the hall while the scene took place. She walks in and gives me a big, friendly smile, which is suddenly the most welcome thing in the world. "I'm Julie," she says, giving me her hand to shake. "Eliza," I say, trying to disguise the quiver in my voice.

"Well go on, sit down, it's all right," says Julie, and I sink onto the sofa. "Have you been with Mrs. Grabiner long? I had no idea he was married 'til this afternoon, Mrs. Barton from the great house phoned up and said his wife was coming up from America, but he never even mentioned it. Bit old for him, isn't she?"

"Oh - she's not his wife, she's his, uh, colleague," I say.

"Well who's his wife then, you?" says Julie with a laugh. I can feel my face redden - I'm not fast enough to come up with a good answer. Her mouth drops open. "What, you - oh sh - I mean, sorry - I mean madam - I mean... oh my God." She backs away from where I'm sitting. "You're not serious?"

"It's really not what you think-" I start.

"I thought you were her, like, personal assistant or something! Oh bloody f - I mean - sorry! Sorry!" Julie's panting now. "Please don't tell him I said that! He'll sack me again!"

"He sacked you already?"

"Yeah - I've been housekeeper here for two years and no one's ever even come to the house. It's mostly just upkeep, and taking care of the furniture, like. When he got here last week he hadn't called or anything to say he was coming. I thought he'd broken in; practically jumped through my skin when he walked in the door," says Julie. "I hollered like anything, nearly called the police, and he sacked me on the spot. But as I was packing my things he came up and said I'd been doing a good job so far, and anyway he didn't have the time to find someone new, so I could stay."

"Oh," I say, trying my best not to smile. "Yeah. He'll do that."

"So you're really married?" asks Julie. "Lord, where'd he pick you up, a high school?"

"Uh. Something like that."

She frowns and looks me over. "Look, do you need me to call someone?"

"Oh - no! No, it really isn't like that, it's, like..." my mind races to think of something. "A family thing, you know, it was arranged? And we're not even supposed to live together or... anything... for a few years yet. I had to come up this week, and that's what Professor Potsdam's here for, you know, to chaperone." It's a pretty lame excuse, but it's the best I can come up with on the spur of the moment.

She's still frowning. "It's a little weird."

"It's very weird," I agree, happy for a moment not to be lying.

"Well, all right, but if you need me to call anyone, you let me know. And - ah - don't tell him I thought you were an assistant, okay? Because he really would sack me."

"Okay," I say, and she smiles again.

"Look, you want some tea or something? Are you hungry? I can't cook worth anything, but I can make you some sandwiches if you like."

"Well tea would be nice..." I start. I'm not sure how hungry I am, but a hot drink sounds great. "Can I help?"

"Are you mental? Didn't I just say I'd get sacked? You stay right where you are." She turns to leave, then turns back. "Oh - and incidentally, could you not mention I can't cook? I've just been getting takeaway from Marks and Spencer and dressing it up on the nice china while he's been here." Her voice drops to a whisper. "I don't think he's noticed."

I grin. "I promise."

"Thanks - won't be a mo. Uh. Madam."

I snicker as Julie leaves, and suddenly I don't feel quite so bad. I get up and wander around the room for a few minutes. The furniture really is beautiful, though I don't know much about antiques. It's all rich, dark wood, and immaculately kept - it seems like Julie has been doing a good job, even if she can't cook. The sight of the street outside the window, the cars sailing past, and the street lights standing their vigil make me smile a little. Just another night in London, which is where I am. A whole new, mysterious city, and I'm right in the middle of it. I just wish I knew what I was here for.

The door bursts open and Professor Potsdam swans in, followed by Professor Grabiner, who still looks furious, but deflated. Professor Potsdam seats herself regally on one of the armchairs and smiles. "Well that's settled then. Sit down, please."

I sit on the edge of the sofa, but Professor Grabiner just starts pacing again. I wait, but no one takes the initiative to speak, so I just stare at my hands until the door opens again - it's Julie with a large tray bearing a teapot, cups, saucers, and a heap of finger sandwiches. "All right if I serve them in here, sir?" Professor Grabiner jerks his chin in her direction, so she sets the tray on the coffee table and leaves, giving me a small smile.

"Oh!" Exclaims Potsdam, "Real English tea, isn't it exciting?"

"Yes, you're in England, there's tea, and it's not imaginary, congratulations," snaps Professor Grabiner.

"Stop sulking and sit down, Hieronymous, honestly," says Professor Potsdam, pouring out three cups. "Milk, Eliza?"

"No, thank you," I say, taking my cup and sipping. It's Earl Grey, my Dad's favorite because of Star Trek, so the drink both warms me and cheers me with thoughts of home and Dad's terrible Jean-Luc Picard impressions. The sandwiches turn out to be delicious - half of them salted cucumber and half potted meat, all with a thin layer of butter spread on both slices of bread. One bite and I'm ravenous, and soon demolish a fair number.

Professor Grabiner doesn't sit and doesn't touch his tea, but crosses to a sideboard which holds a decanter-and-glass set. He pours about a finger width of amber liquid from one of the decanters into a glass, tosses it back, then pours another.

"Well if you're going to do that, at least eat something," says Professor Potsdam. He gives her a withering look, mutters "excuse me," in my direction, and stalks out of the room with his drink.

"Oh well, it's all right," chirps Professor Potsdam. "He'll come around, you know, he always does."

"Professor, can you please tell me now, what are we doing here?"

"Yes, yes," she says, gulping down a large mouthful of bread and cucumber. "We're going to visit Hieronymous's father in the country."

"His father?" I set my teacup down into its saucer with a clink. Professor Grabiner had been estranged from his father for years, or so I'd been told. The man was some kind of nobility, but as he lived in the Otherworld - a terribly unsafe place for children - full-time, he hadn't bothered to raise Professor Grabiner as a child, instead leaving him to the care of employees. This had all led somehow to the death of a girl named Violet, Professor Grabiner's first love, who'd crossed into the Otherworld with him unprotected, and had her soul eaten by goblins as he watched, helpless. The final result was Professor Grabiner's estrangement from his father, self-imposed exile from England, and volatile personality. "No wonder he's so upset. But did something happen? They haven't spoken in years, and Professor Grabiner burns all his letters. Why now?"

"Your marriage, for one thing, I'm sure Lord Montague's quite keen to meet his daughter-in-law."

"But that doesn't make any sense, if Professor Grabiner didn't even know I was coming-"

I'm interrupted by a knock at the door. Julie enters. "Pardon me, Mrs. Grabiner, Ms. Potsdam, your rooms are ready if you'd care for me to show you to them." Julie's friendly manner has disappeared - now, she's all obsequious politeness.

"Yes, it is getting late," says Professor Potsdam, looking at a tiny gold watch that dangles from her wrist. "Come along, Eliza."

"But-" I start, to no avail. Professor Potsdam is already out the door, so I follow along. My befuddlement at the situation is slowly being replaced by frustration. Professor Potsdam is known for throwing her students into dangerous situations without letting them know what they'll be dealing with beforehand - after all, that's how all of our school exams are structured - but after racing across the Atlantic under false pretenses, I'm beginning to get tired of following her around obediently without any further information.

"Here we are, madam, says Julie to Professor Potsdam, showing her into a room with an ivory four-poster and wallpaper sporting pink entwined roses on the walls. I follow Julie into the next room, which is decorated with pale green curtains and paper. The bed isn't a four-poster, but looks very comfortable, and the room even has its own bathroom.

"Now you saw Ms. Potsdam's just next door, and I'm right across the hall. So if you need anything, no matter what time it is..." she trails off, and gives me a significant look.

So Julie's trying to chaperone me, too. "Oh, thanks I'll keep it in mind. Good night."

My suitcase is already in the room, but I decide it's probably too much trouble to unpack until I figure out how long I'll be staying. Instead, I dig out my toothbrush and go into the bathroom to wash up. It's a bit small, but has an impressively deep clawfoot tub that, upon consideration, I decide that I can't resist. I run myself a bath and dump half a bottle of posh-looking shower gel that I find on a nearby shelf (thanks to Julie, I assume) into the water. With the help of a breeze spell, the stuff makes a decent bubble bath. I stay in the water for as long as the bubbles and heat last, and consider the events of the past few days. The only conclusion I come to is that I feel a bit like one of the pinballs in the machines at the arcade near school, tossed about in one direction or another without any control over where I'm going.

After getting out of the tub and drying my hair, I step back into the bedroom, and have to stifle a shriek upon seeing someone already there.

It's Professor Potsdam, and she has my suitcase open on the bed, inspecting the clothes I packed.

"Hello dear, have a nice bath?" She frowns at the plain black suit dress that she's holding up. "Is this what you planned on wearing?"

"I didn't really plan on anything..." Professor Potsdam had said something about packing "nice clothes" for the trip when I'd spoken to her on the phone prior to leaving, but as my "nice clothes" consisted of the limited work wardrobe I'd put together for my summer job, those were the only things I'd packed. "You didn't mean that I should wear witch's robes, did you?"

"Don't be silly, dear, it's a proper English country house! And you're Lord Montague's new daughter-in-law, you'll need to dress the part. Hieronymous should have taken care of this already, he's so obtuse."

It seems futile for me to try to argue that I hadn't the slightest idea I'd be visiting a country house until about an hour ago, and that apparently Professor Grabiner hadn't either, so I just stand still, clutching my towel around me.

"Oh well, I'll see what I can do with them," Potsdam concludes, bundling my work dresses, blouses and skirts in her arms and heading to the door. "You ought to get to bed, we're starting out first thing in the morning, and it's a long drive."

"Tomorrow morning?"

"Yes, dear! I'll wake you up, don't worry. Sweetest dreams, popkin!" She shuts the door behind her, leaving me feeling suddenly sympathetic to Professor Grabiner's earlier display of rage. Fortunately she left my pajamas and underwear in the suitcase, so I'm able to get dressed for bed.

Of course, I can't sleep at all. Although the bed is comfortable, I have too many things working against me - jet lag, a cup of tea before bed, an unfamiliar room, and an agitated mental state. I toss for what seems like hours, telling myself that I'll only be more miserable if I can't get to sleep as quickly as possible, but my body won't cooperate. At about the forty-eighth flop onto my left side, I prop myself up to look at a small antique clock on the bedside table in the glow of the streetlights outside. Twenty after twelve. My first day of being seventeen is over already.

I groan and stuff my head into the pillow. I could turn on the light and read, but I'm at the dismal stretch in Jane Eyre where Jane stays with the priggish St. John Rivers before returning to Thornfield once and for all. I consider knocking on Julie's door to ask for a glass of ice water, but that seems so self-entitled. I can get my own water. Suddenly, the thought of getting up and searching for ice water seems enticing - after all, I haven't seen much of the house, and it might be fun to poke into some of the rooms on the way to the kitchen. I spend a minute going back and forth on should I or shouldn't I, then decide, and get out of bed.

The upstairs hallway is dark, and seems to soak up the little sounds I make as I pad on bare feet across the runner carpet. The stairs creak just a bit, but I'm careful, and skip the one that seems likely to make the most noise. Once in the foyer, the dark expanse and silence of the house around me seems almost blissful, and a little worm of excitement squirms in my stomach. But when I turn to walk down the hallway to the back of the house, I notice that there's a light behind one of the partially opened doors. Well.

I approach the door, rolling my feet from outside to inside as I walk, trying to make as little noise as possible. And when I look into the room - the same sitting room in which we'd had tea this evening - it's just as I'd thought. Professor Grabiner's sitting on the sofa, a stack of papers in front of him on the coffee table. But he's not even pretending to look at them, he's staring straight in front of him as though he's looking through the wall, covering his mouth with one hand. It suddenly strikes me as shabby to sneak up on him like this, so I knock on the door.

He doesn't move, but his eyes flick to the door and fix on me for a long moment. Finally, he lowers the hand covering his mouth. "Can't sleep?" he asks.

"No," I say. "Jet lag I guess. You?"

He shakes his head, though it doesn't look as though he's tried to sleep yet; he's still wearing his suit, though his jacket's unbuttoned and tie loosened. We stay still, looking at each other for a moment, until I finally break the silence. "Can I come in?"

He shrugs, which I take as a yes, so I step into the room. Deep breath.

"Hieronymous," I start, and it feels so awkward to say, a mouthful of a name that I'm not used to using, but now doesn't seem the time to call him "professor" or "sir." "I've been waiting, can you tell me what's going on?"

He doesn't say anything, just watches me try to think of what to say next, to convince him.

"Professor Potsdam's being... well, she's being herself, just parceling out bits of information when it's convenient to her."

He doesn't answer.

"I came all the way here, I thought it was supposed to be imperative that I follow Professor Potsdam's instructions," I continue.

He still doesn't answer.

"And," I continue, increasingly desperate, "you did say you'd explain when you saw me next."

"Did I?" he says.

"Mm-hm. You said 'in detail.'"

"How extraordinary of me," he deadpans.

This time, I don't answer. I've said my piece, I decide, and can wait him out all night, if that's what it takes.

He breaks eye contact first, with a sigh. "Very well," he says, standing and picking up the glass that was in front of him on the coffee table. He points to the sofa. "Sit."

"Thank you," I say, as though he'd given me a courteous invitation rather than an order. He crosses to the sideboard as I settle myself on the sofa, tucking my feet under me.

"Drink?" he asks, gesturing to the glass-and-decanter set.

"Water?"

"Will soda water do?"

"Yes, thanks." I watch as he extracts two ice cubes from a silver tin with a pair of tongs, then squirts a measure of soda from a siphon - something I've never seen outside of a period movie - into the glass. He pours another measure of amber liquid into his own glass from the decanter, the contents of which seem significantly depleted since I was last in the room. He doesn't seem at all unsteady as he hands me my water and sits next to me on the sofa, so I decide not to worry about it.

He doesn't look at me after sitting back down, but stares at the opposite wall again, his expression inscrutable. Finally, he takes a deep breath, and begins to speak.


	4. Chapter 4

"About the middle of July," he starts, slowly, as if tasting each word before releasing it to the air, "I received a letter from my father. As you know, that is not an unusual occurrence, and one to which I've developed something of an automatic response."

I remember watching him pick up a letter and burning it with a flick of his fingers, unopened, but I don't interrupt.

"This letter... He'd written on the envelope directly so I'd see it before burning it. 'Hieronymous, I'm dying. Open it.'"

"Oh - I'm sorry-" I say, but he gives an irritated click of his tongue and gestures dismissively.

"For my father to demean himself by sending  _that_  through the post... well. Suffice to say, I opened the letter. Apparently he's received an expectancy of a few months, at the most, and has departed his home in the Otherworld in favor of his house in the country in order to make arrangements. He wrote to beg my assistance, not only because he is unable to make the journey into London to see his solicitors in his present state of health, but also because, as the sole heir to his title..." he trails off and sips at his drink. "I believe I mentioned that he's a member of the peerage?"

"The nobility? Uh - yes," I answer.

"To be specific, he is a viscount, and a hereditary peer of the House of Lords, meaning that his title passes to me in the event of his death. And thanks to an ingenious little loophole he managed to worm into the recent reform bill," he continues, with a tinge of creeping sarcasm, "his position in Parliament passes to me as well."

"Oh," I say, "that sounds... important."

"Compounded by the fact that he is the sole representative of the magical community in the House of Lords, yes,  _important_  rather covers it. I decided that I ought to witness the full situation myself before making any permanent decisions, so I went to see him."

"And how is he?" I ask, not able to bring myself to say "how did it go?"

He shakes his head slightly. "He's undoubtedly ill... whether the diagnosis is accurate, I don't care to speculate. But." And he stops and rubs his mouth with one hand.

"But something's the matter?" I ask.

"Two things, actually, struck me as unusual," he answers. "For one, he has apparently taken to surrounding himself with a crowd of charlatans."

"With... what?"

"Non-magical people who happen to think that they can perform magic. Fortune tellers, psychics, amateur conjurers..." The contempt dripping from his words is so palpable I half expect to see it burning little holes in the carpet at his feet.

"Non-magical - but why would he do that?" I've just spent three months enduring a summer without being able to use or discuss magic, and only by necessity. It's stifling, and I can't imagine that anyone with a choice would subject himself to that, particularly if he were used to living in the Otherworld, where magic is apparently used freely. And if they're people who pretend to be able to use magic - well, it sounds unbearable.

"An apt question, and one which I have yet to determine an answer, although I intend to," he says.

I take a sip of my soda water. Its sharp fizz is irritating at first, but satisfying as the liquid coats my mouth. "And the second thing?"

He doesn't answer at first, just takes another swallow of his drink, eyes fixed ahead. Then he turns to look at me for the first time since starting this explanation.

"He's been tracking you all summer."

"He -  _why_? I haven't done anything this summer, what would be the point?"

"Another question I've repeatedly asked myself to no satisfactory conclusion. Nevertheless, based upon the information that I discovered while attending my father at his house in the country, he has been tracking your every move, as exactly as possible, since you left school in May."

"Working eight hours a day at a stationer's office, having dinner with my parents, that's... it doesn't make sense."

"Yes, well, sensible or not, his inordinate interest is a bit unnerving. I contacted Professor Potsdam and asked her to travel to London so that we could confer about what I'd learned, and determine whether it constituted a threat. And I asked that before she left, would she please ensure that you were delivered to Iris Academy where you would be protected in case of any unforeseen circumstances."

"But she brought me here," I say.

"Oh, did you notice that?"

"Stop it," I mutter. "Why did she do it?"

He sighs. "She is of the opinion that by cutting out the extraneous steps and bringing you to him directly, we'll be able to determine his intentions, if any, more efficiently."

It sounds a lot like being used as bait to me. "I guess it didn't occur to either of you to ask me first?"

He looks at me, startled, and opens his mouth to say something, then closes it again. It's so strange to have caught him off guard like that, I can't help but smile. "I won't hit you if you say no."

"All right,  _no_ ," he says, petulant, so I smack him lightly on the shoulder. He makes a face. "You said you wouldn't hit me."

I shrug. "I lied."

He smirks, and I smile back. "Right," he says, "I apologize. I should have asked you." He sighs again, and rubs his eyes with one hand. "It seems as though I've been doing everything today in the wrong order."

"I know what you mean," I say. Our entire marriage has been an exercise in doing things in the wrong order.

"Well, if you decide to go home, I will personally see that you are on the first plane back to the United States tomorrow morning," he says. "Just please consider going straight to school, it is much safer."

I consider my options for a moment, looking into my water glass and tapping my fingernails lightly against the sides. "If I go with you," I start, "do you really think I could help?"

He makes a noncommittal gesture. "Professor Potsdam thinks-"

"I'm not asking Professor Potsdam, I'm asking you."

He leans his head back on the sofa and looks at the ceiling for a minute before answering. "Loathe as I am to admit it, I think she is right," he says. "If he seriously desired to see you in person, it would not be a great deal of work for him to have you brought to him as quickly as possible, and without Petunia there, I think he would have the resources to penetrate even Iris Academy's protection if he were truly bent on that object. And your presence might distract him for long enough to allow me to determine his intent unencumbered. In addition, the two of us would be there to ensure you were not harmed. But, as I say, the decision rests in your hands."

It does sound like I'm being used as bait. And it gives me a chill to hear him talk so casually about my being harmed by his own father. On the other hand, the alternative is to return home and conclude my dull summer vacation, or return to school where I may or may not be safe, and make myself sick worrying about when - or if - Professor Grabiner might come back. And if it'll help to have me there...

"All right," I say, "I'll go."

"Very well," he answers, and finishes his drink at one swallow.

Neither of us says anything for several minutes, until I can't stand the silence any more.

"So," I start, "It's a proper English country house, just like-"

"Pemberly?" he interrupts, and there's a nasty edge to his voice. He slurs the word a little too, and I realize that although he's holding himself together very well, he's not nearly as sober as he's pretending to be.

I decide I don't really mind. "I was going to say Thornfield Hall."

To my surprise - and a little bit of relief - he snorts with laughter at this. "Thornfield? What, do you think he has my mother stuffed in an attic?"

"That or your first wife," I say.

"My first wife is..." he reaches out and taps me on the forehead with one finger. "Here. So you ought to watch yourself if you don't want to be the one to get locked up in an attic."

This makes me laugh. "Thanks," I say, "I'll keep it in mind in case you decide to marry the governess without divorcing me first."

"Ah, you're learning." He leans his head back against the top of the sofa again, smiling faintly, and more relaxed than I've seen him all day - if I want to be honest, in the year I've known him. It's nice to see, and, I think, might be worth this entire trip, with its oddities and frustrations.

I put my water glass down on the table and lean my head against the sofa too, suddenly a little tired after all. "I missed you," I say, without thinking.

He drops his smile and turns to look at me sharply. I've said the wrong thing again.

"That's really not necessary," he says.

"Yeah, but it's true," I say. "I was worried when you stopped writing."

"I-"

"No, I know," I interrupt, "you had other things to think about."

He rolls his head back to look at the ceiling again. "I was thinking about you, actually."

"Right, to get me back to school, yeah." I look at my hands twisting in my lap.

Neither of us says anything for a few minutes. I begin to think that maybe I should go up to bed, when he reaches over and runs his fingers down one side of my face to rest on my neck, then uses his thumb to tilt my chin up.

And I think  _he's going to kiss me again_.

He doesn't kiss me. What he does is touch his mouth to the tip of my chin, then brushes his lips slowly down the edge of my jaw, flicking his tongue into the hollow where my jaw meets my neck. This makes me gasp, and he backs away, just an inch or so.

It feels like all of the hairs on my body are standing on end, and I'm frozen between the intense desire to run straight back to my bedroom, and the urge to clutch at his shoulders and demand that he do that again, _immediately_.

I don't move.

I'm not sure how long the two of us sit there, both still and barely breathing. If I'd had my eyes closed I couldn't have said whether he was really there at all, but for the featherlight pressure of his fingers on my neck, the heat from his face next to mine, the clean smell of his hair.

Finally, I swallow, throat thick. "Is this the way I get myself locked up in an attic?"

"One of them, I think," he murmurs, mouth close to my ear.

_Deep breath._

"Then I'll take your advice," I say, "and watch myself."

And I stand and walk out of the room, not trusting myself to look back.


	5. Chapter 5

When I get back to my room, I huddle under the bedcovers, knees drawn to my chin, shaking a little. I think that I'll never get to sleep now, but the next thing I know there's a knock on my door, and light shining through the green curtains onto my face.

"Eliza!" Professor Potsdam opens the door and pokes her head in. "Did you have a good rest?"

I don't answer, but just stare at her with a look that feels like "bleary horror."

"Good!" she chirps. She hangs one of the garment bags in which I'd stored my work suits on the door of the little wardrobe in the corner. "Wear this, I tried to ensure it won't wrinkle during the drive."

"We're driving?" I ask. "Can't we just teleport there?"

"Don't be silly!" she says. "It's much too far without a lot of advanced preparation for us, and way above your skill level. Even if Hieronymous and I did teleport ourselves, we'd have to rest and recharge for several hours before we could fetch you. Time and space matter in magic, you know! Driving's much easier."

"Right," I say, although I really have no idea whether that's true. Iris Academy - at least the first year - is heavy on practice but light on theory, all part of Professor Potsdam's "learn through experience" method of education. As a consequence, I'm good at the few spells I've learned during my first year, but I don't have much of a grasp on what can and can't be done by advanced magicians.

"Anyway," Professor Potsdam continues, "get dressed and come down to the kitchen, Julie's making breakfast."

"I hope it's from Marks and Spencer," I mutter.

"What's that, dear?"

"Oh - nothing. Thanks, Professor."

Even though I had a bath last night, I decide a shower might wake me up. After drying myself, I step into the room (first making sure that there are no unexpected intruders) to inspect what Professor Potsdam left me in the garment bag. I unzip it, and see a very smart-looking heather grey summer skirt-suit, with a cropped jacket and a white silk blouse. I stroke the fabric, and sense that it was originally a plain grey skirt-suit and white button-down that I'd gotten for work, transfigured with a combination of blue and black magic. This suit looks much nicer than the original, and I find myself hoping that we'll get to learn how to transfigure clothes during school next year. I don't know anything about fashion, but it seems as though it would be a frugal way to get new work outfits.

I take my time dressing, then pack my pajamas and toiletry things into my suitcase and make the bed. The little antique clock reads eight forty-five, and my shower-induced alertness is beginning to wear off already. I'd like to crawl back under the covers and refuse to come out, but then I remember that I'd chosen to go - that he said I could help. Does he still want me along after last night? I guess there's only one way to find out. I make my way downstairs.

The doors in the hallway are all closed, but I can hear a clanking of pans, and Professor Potsdam's high voice, so I follow the sounds to the back of the house. I find a sunny, cozy kitchen, and Professor Potsdam munching on toast and jam, talking at Julie who's washing plates in the sink. Both of them call out "good morning!" as I enter the room.

"Well, let's see," Professor Potsdam says, so I spread out my arms and turn around once. She checks to ensure that Julie's back is turned, then runs her hands over the seams of the jacket and skirt. The clothes tighten a little in some places, and loosen in others; the end result is extremely comfortable. I smile my thanks, and sit down at the breakfast table.

The food isn't from Marks and Spencer; just a stack of hot toast, a plate of fruit and some eggs, all of which are apparently simple enough for Julie to cook herself. I enjoy the novelty of eating a soft boiled egg out of an egg-cup - another item I've only ever seen in period movies and television shows. I'd always wondered how people actually eat out of them, but after Julie shows me how to crack the top of the egg, slice off the tip, melt butter into the soft exposed yolk and eat the whole thing with a spoon, it seems pretty obvious. It's also delicious, especially paired with buttered toast.

As I'm finishing my breakfast, I hear the front door open, and Professor Grabiner's voice calling for Julie. She yells back, "coming, sir!" and drops the plate she's washing to rush into the foyer. I feel horribly nervous, and start clearing my plates to the sink, just to have something to do. "Don't bother dear, Julie will get it," Professor Potsdam says as she pours a third cup of tea, but I can't help myself. I clear the table and start washing up, grateful to have something to do with my hands.

Julie bustles back in after a few minutes. "Oh, madam, please don't bother, I'll get that!" she says in a panicky voice when she sees me at the sink. I relinquish the dishes to her, and turn to see Professor Grabiner enter the kitchen. He's wearing another unobtrusively expensive suit, and if he's hung over - or anything - from last night, he isn't showing it.

"Good morning," he says, looking at me. His tone is almost pleasant.

"Good morning, Hieronymous," says Professor Potsdam, drowning out my muttered greeting. "Everything go all right at the solicitor's?"

"As well as can be expected," he replies. "About fifteen minutes, I think, are you ready?"

"I think so," says Potsdam, and he vanishes back into the house.

There's a flurry of getting ready to go in which I don't participate. Most of it seems to be instructions from Professor Grabiner to Julie, who follows him around the house and "yes, sir"s him almost as eagerly as a first year student. Our driver hauls Professor Potsdam's huge collection of pink luggage down the stairs and into the car. I stay in the kitchen with Professor Potsdam, having a last cup of tea that I hope will wake me up enough to get through the drive.

"So, where's the house?" I ask.

"Northumberland, dear, near the border," she answers, stirring a hefty spoonful of sugar into her fourth cup of tea. "About a six hour drive, give or take."

"And you've been there?"

"Oh, my, no. I'm very excited to see it, though, a real private country house is so rare these days."

Something niggles at the back of my mind, and it's a minute before I seize it. "How did they know I was coming?"

"What's that?"

"Yesterday Julie said that someone at the 'great house' called to say I was coming. How did they know?"

"I told them, of course, it wouldn't do to just spring you on the viscount without any prior warning, would it?"

"The way you sprang me on Professor Grabiner?"

"I couldn't resist a little joke; you saw his face, it was priceless!"

Priceless, right. But there's something really odd about this. If what Professor Grabiner told me was true, and he called Professor Potsdam to help him figure out whether his father is up to something, why would she be in touch with his father herself?

I remember the last day of term, when Professor Grabiner remarked that he thought his father was possibly bribing Professor Potsdam into pushing the two of us together, thinking that a marriage would encourage Professor Grabiner to take up his father's place in government - does that mean in Parliament? But if the place is hereditary, wouldn't his father have to die before Professor Grabiner could take his position? What would marriage have to do with that? And if Professor Grabiner suspected Professor Potsdam of conspiring with his father, why would she be the first person he contacted in order to determine his father's real purpose?

All of these questions set my head spinning, though it might just be that I'm over-caffeinated from the tea. It doesn't seem to help much with how tired I am, just makes me feel jittery.

I let the questions chase their tails in my head for a while, until Professor Potsdam stands and says "time to go." She bustles me into the hall and out the front door.

"My suitcase-" I start.

"Taken care of, taken care of," she says as we pass Julie, who gives us a quick wave.

"See you, Julie," I say.

Professor Potsdam shoves me in the direction of the back door of the black sedan. "I'll just let you two catch up," she says with a wink, and gets into the front seat next to the driver.

Professor Grabiner's in the back already, and I slide in next to him in the seat behind the driver. He gives me a bland glance, then turns to look out of his window. I look out of mine back to the house to see Julie give a final wave, and we drive off, unspooling out of London and into the north.

Professor Potsdam pulls a lacy pink shawl out of her bag, still on the needles, and busies herself with stitching into the pattern, needles clacking in rhythm as she starts chatting about nothing in particular. The yarn looks as though its colors are shifting from blush pink to pale blue and back again in a decidedly magical fashion, but the driver doesn't seem to notice, so I don't say anything about it.

In fact, I don't say anything at all, just stare alternately out of my window or at my hands in my lap. Professor Grabiner also remains silent, arms crossed and staring resolutely out of his window. I wish that I could read my book, but it seems rude to do that while Professor Potsdam is talking. I can't bring myself to answer her though, and she doesn't seem to require it. Still, her constant nattering about anything that comes into her head becomes grating after the first hour or so, and I find myself thinking that I'd rather be alone in silence with Professor Grabiner, despite all the awkwardness from last night, than listening to Professor Potsdam go on.

We drive for hours, and the landscape shifts from city to terrace-housed suburb, from suburb to dotting rural houses, and from houses to stretches of farmland. We stop for lunch in a village with interestingly ancient buildings, sitting out of doors at a small cafe that serves us not-very-good sandwiches and strong tea. Professor Grabiner spends most of the time out of the car fiddling with his mobile, taking no more than a bite of one sandwich, putting it down again, and wandering off to phone someone. Professor Potsdam munches her sandwiches, complaining about Professor Grabiner's rudeness between bites. I stare at the old houses, at the dark timber jutting out from their stone walls, wondering  _when did that first get built_ and  _who lived there_? The houses present blank faces, dark windows for eyes and unmoving doors for mouths. I let myself be herded back into the car for the last leg of the drive.

It's another hour of Professor Potsdam's solo knitting and chatter before I notice Professor Grabiner beside me muttering under his breath and making gestures with his fingers toward the driver. It looks like a complicated spell, as it takes him a full minute to complete before I feel the telltale rush of magic released into the air.

It doesn't seem as though anything significant has happened until Professor Grabiner addresses the driver. "Mr. Davies, would you pull over, please?"

The driver - Mr. Davies, I guess - doesn't react at all, but continues down the highway. Apparently, he can't hear us. I glare at the back of Professor Potsdam's head - she could have done that last night in the car. But then I think that she was probably withholding information deliberately-though whether it was only to keep me in the dark about our purpose, or to force me to get information from Professor Grabiner in keeping with her ambition to make us a "real couple," I can't say.

"Forms of address," Professor Grabiner says, using the tone of voice that can quiet a classroom of unruly young magicians in about two seconds flat. "My father is the 16th Viscount Montague, and is referred to by his title - Montague - as opposed to his surname. In conversation, you're to address my father as 'Lord Montague,'  _not_  as 'Viscount Montague,' as the latter is reserved for formal correspondence. That is, unless he asks you to call him something else when I introduce him to you, in which case you're to comply with his request. Do you follow?"

"Oh - yes," I say, my palms already itching for a pen and paper with which to take notes. But that wouldn't do any good, as this is clearly all information I'll need to keep in my head for when we arrive at the house.

"As for the two of us, we're not considered 'titled,' and so will be referred to as Mr. and Mrs. Grabiner, save for formal correspondence, which you don't have to worry about for our purposes this week."

I'm a little disappointed at this, as it would be pretty grand to be called "Lady Grabiner" or "Lady Montague," but I don't say anything.

"Introductions," he continues. "When I present him to you - never the other way around, incidentally - you're to extend your hand to shake his first. You can nod your head, but  _don't_ curtsy; you're not meeting the Queen."

I have no idea how to curtsy anyway, so that's a relief.

"As you're shaking hands, say 'how do you do,'  _never_  'pleased to meet you.' And it's a salutation, not a question, so when he responds in kind, don't answer. After that, he's likely to talk your ear off, particularly if he feels that he can show off to you - which he will. I don't have any concerns about your ability to smile, nod, and say a polite word or two, so," he waves his hand at me, vaguely, "have at it."

"Yes, sir," I respond.

"Perfect. Importantly, don't swan about like you're an actress in a Regency film; he knows you're a sixteen-year-old American-"

"I was seventeen yesterday!" I interject.

"Oh.  _Fantastic_. You were seventeen yesterday, what an enormous difference," he says, his voice caustic with sarcasm.

"You could at least wish her a happy birthday," remarks Professor Potsdam, who's still knitting.

He responds only by giving me such an exasperated look that I can't help but break into laughter. This, strangely, causes the nervous knot that had been in my stomach through the entire drive to dissolve.

Professor Grabiner waits for me to stop laughing, a smirk on his face. "If I may continue?"

"You may proceed, sir," I say with a dignified wave, channeling my best British-actress-in-a-Regency-film demeanor. He rolls his eyes at me, and I grin.

"As I was saying, just because your name is Eliza doesn't mean I'm trying to pass you off as a Hungarian princess, so please be yourself. But polite. Do you follow?"

"Yes, sir," I say, trying and failing to drop my smile.

"Now, table manners," he continues. "My father is perverse enough to torture us with a formal dinner at least once. Fortunately he eschews evening dress while in the country in favor of dinner jackets." He glances up and sees my befuddled look. "Colloquially, he eschews white tie in favor of black tie. And incidentally, if the words 'tuxedo' or, God forbid, 'tux' escape your mouth, I shall divorce you immediately and damn the consequences."

"Honestly, Hieronymous," scolds Professor Potsdam from the front seat, but I'm giggling again.

"Use your utensils in the continental style: fork held in the left hand, tongs pointing down, knife in the right hand. Fork in the right hand only if you're not using the knife for the entire course. Service with a full staff - and I think there will be a full staff - is  _à_ _la Russe_ , meaning courses. A server comes around with a tray, on your left, and you serve yourself from the tray with the implements provided - never with your own utensils. Films tend to make cutlery look more intimidating than it actually is, but the general rule is to move from the outside in, and if you're confused, just watch me. Do not thank the staff, and do _not_ talk about the food. Do you follow?"

"Um. Yes. Sir." He makes dinner sound like an ordeal, and I have a sudden vision of the gauche seventeen-year-old American upsetting a tray all over the table through a clumsy attempt to serve herself a - what, a salad in aspic? The nervous knot in my stomach is beginning to resurface.

"And you'd better wear this; it's not really customary in the magical community, but as we're dealing with a 'mixed crowd'..." I sense the dripping contempt again in the last two words; he must mean the "charlatans" he was discussing last night. "I don't want you to have to deal with any personal remarks or questions." He tosses a small box at me, which I manage to catch in one hand.

It's a ring box, and he looks out of his window again as I open it. The ring inside is unlike anything I could have expected, though. The band looks to be silver, but the top is black, a raised design in the shape of a snake, coiled around itself and eating its own tail. The lines between the snake scales shine silver. The snake encircles a dark red stone, perfectly round, about a quarter of an inch in diameter. The stone is strange; it almost seems to exude its own light, though that's probably due to the bright summer sun streaming through the windows.

"Well, let's see it," says Professor Potsdam, craning her head around. I hand her the box. "Ooooh," she says. "Oxidized silver and carbuncle - Otherworld carbuncle?"

"I think so," says Professor Grabiner. "It was a great-great aunt's. Or great-great-great-aunt's, can't remember which. I found it in a safe deposit box at the solicitor's. I don't think anyone's been through some of those things for a hundred years."

Professor Potsdam holds the box back in Professor Grabiner's direction, but when he doesn't take it, I do. Professor Potsdam looks back as I take the ring out of the box to put it onto my left ring finger.

"Hieronymous, you could make an effort," she chides, wanting him to make the romantic gesture of sliding it onto my finger himself, I suppose. I've already put it on, but to my irritation, it's way too big for my narrow fingers. Professor Grabiner tilts his head toward me, catching my eye, and raises his eyebrows. I glance towards Professor Potsdam, who is looking away again, then make a face and hold up my hand to show Professor Grabiner the comically huge ring hanging on my finger. He extends one hand to me, and I hesitate before I put my left hand, palm up, in his right. He runs his other index finger from the center of my palm to the tip of my ring finger, and I feel the ring tighten until it feels comfortable. He twitches his mouth into what might be a smile and lets me go. I turn back to my window and watch the hillsides pass by for the remainder of the drive, hand still tingling where he'd touched it.


	6. Chapter 6

As we approach our destination, the landscape around the highway becomes wilder until it resembles the windswept moorlands described in  _Jane Eyre_ or  _Wuthering Heights_. Small herds of cattle dot the hillsides, which are alternately covered in heather or hayfields. Large stone buildings crop up in the distance from time to time; some that look like castles, and some that look like ruins. They look impressively ancient against the landscape, and I crane my head to watch them pass. Even Professor Potsdam has lapsed into silence, though her knitting needles continue to click.

It's both strange and nostalgic to survey the scenery that surrounds us as we drive north. I've spent so much time pretending to be Jane Eyre wandering around the countryside, and watched so many British period films and BBC productions with my mother (who shares my enthusiasm for the genre) that it all seems very familiar, even though I've never seen it in person. After a long stretch of empty countryside, we turn into a paved drive that leads for miles into a group of hills with little rocky outcroppings.

I don't see the house until we're almost on top of it. It's huge, built of buff-colored stone, with a crenellated roof, like a castle. Unlike a castle it doesn't have any towers - it doesn't look more than three stories high at its tallest point - but it's sprawling. Big chunks of building make up the main section of the house, and two wings extend behind. It looks as though the house had started as one smallish main section, but had been expanded piece by piece until it reached its now mammoth proportions.

"Well, there you have it, Yeavering Hall. Like it?" asks Professor Grabiner, with a tone that suggests he couldn't care less what I think of the house.

"It's impressive. Did you grow up here?" I ask, trying to imitate his nonchalant manner.

"Between here and London, until I went to school at sixteen," he says.

I look back at the approaching house. It seems a pretty lonely place to grow up without any family, even with trips to London. Professor Grabiner doesn't volunteer any more information, and I don't ask any more questions as we round the drive to the front of the house and stop before the front door. As soon as we stop, I get out of the car, relieved to stretch my legs and stand in the warm August sun.

"You ought to let Mr. Davies do that," Professor Grabiner says, rounding the back of the car and nodding at the door.

"I'm an independent American woman; I can open my own doors," I say, in a mock-haughty voice.

"Well. If you would?" he says, offering me his arm. I take it, and we walk together to the door, Professor Potsdam trotting close behind.

The door is opened by a tall woman in a suit, who glances at Professor Grabiner briefly and says "Welcome, sir, he's expecting you in his study."

"Thank you, Mrs. Barton," says Professor Grabiner, and walks into the house.

The foyer is large and very striking. A huge double staircase leads to an upstairs hall, the walls decorated with jewel-colored tapestries. I look quickly back at the woman who answered the door. "Housekeeper?" I whisper to Professor Grabiner.

"Butler," he answers, with a faint smile.

"But she-"

"Is a she, yes."

I had no idea there could be female butlers, and the thought makes me strangely elated. I grin as Professor Grabiner steers me deeper into the house. We stop at one large, ornate door at which Professor Grabiner knocks. It's opened by a thin blond man with wire rimmed glasses who nods at us and holds the door open as we pass through.

"Ah, Hieronymous, right on time," says a baritone voice from inside the room.

The room is dim, but as my eyes adjust to the yellow light from the desk lamp, Aloysius Grabiner - Lord Montague - comes into view.

Looking at him, it's clear that he and Professor Grabiner are father and son. Both are tall, rail thin, and share the same hooded eyes and hawk nose. Lord Montague, however, looks as though he has lost weight in a very short time, as folds of skin hang from his chin and neck over the collar of his shirt. His hair, too, is grey instead of black, and clipped short. But the biggest difference is their expressions - while Professor Grabiner remains stone faced, Lord Montague lights up with a huge, genuine smile. He stands and crosses to the front of the desk at which he'd been sitting.

"Eliza, may I present my father, Lord Montague?" says Professor Grabiner, with just a hint of acidity to his voice.

I extend my hand and nod my head slightly. "How do you do?"

Lord Montague shakes my hand, his grip warm and firm. "Eliza my dear, how do you do. I'm delighted." His voice has the same deep, resonant sound that Professor Grabiner's does, but has a gravelly quality to it.

_It's a salutation not a question, don't answer_ , I remind myself, so I just stay silent and smile back at my father-in-law.

"And you know Petunia Potsdam, of course," continues Professor Grabiner.

Lord Montague moves from me to Professor Potsdam, taking her hand just as warmly. "Yes, of course, such a pleasure to see you again, Petunia," he says. She murmurs something, sounding oddly subdued for her usual buoyant personality. I take the opportunity to glance at Profesor Grabiner, who nods at me, slightly. Apparently, I've passed this test.

"You must be exhausted from your drive," Lord Montague says, turning back to face me. "I've asked for tea to be sent up to your rooms so you won't have to bother with the rest of my guests just now, and then you can dress for dinner in peace."

I see Professor Grabiner's expression fall at the mention of dressing for dinner - this means the formal dinner he was dreading, I guess.

"Petunia, I've put you in the Rose Room, I remember how much you like pink," says Lord Montague, and Professor Potsdam giggles at him flirtatiously. "And Hieronymous and Eliza will be in the Impossible Room."

Professor Grabiner's expression changes from despondent to alarmed. "That's really not customary-" he starts, but his father interrupts him.

"Don't be so prudish, Hieronymous, I know you haven't seen each other in months, I thought I'd give you some time alone." He smiles at me, and it's a struggle to keep my face expressionless. I have no idea whether I've succeeded.

"Well run along, I won't keep you," says Lord Montague, "we have plenty of time to get acquainted this evening. Cocktails at six. Mr. Lewis, just a few more things before we finish?"

This last sentence is directed at the thin blond man with the glasses who had opened the door for us. Clearly we've been dismissed, and I follow Professor Potsdam out the door to find Mrs. Barton waiting for us in the hall. "If you'll follow me, please," she says, and I do, a bit too shocked for anything but obedience.

"I have to insist-" starts Professor Grabiner testily, but Lord Montague interrupts him. "Now now, you're tired and we'll have plenty to discuss at dinner, so run along and dress, and I'll see you at six." He effectively pushes Professor Grabiner out the door, and shuts it behind him. I've never seen Professor Grabiner get railroaded like that by anyone, except maybe Professor Potsdam.

The four of us ascend the huge foyer staircase and pass into a hall hung with artwork and portraits. I try to look at the ones we pass, but Mrs. Barton keeps an efficient pace, and I have to rush to avoid falling behind. We turn and turn again, until Mrs. Barton stops abruptly and opens a door to show a sunny room decorated entirely in pink. Professor Grabiner and I wait outside while Professor Potsdam is shown in. I venture another glance at him, but his expression is back to impassive.

After Professor Potsdam is happily installed in her room, Mrs. Barton leads Professor Grabiner and me down the hall and up a small winding staircase to a third floor hallway. When she opens a door to show us in, I gasp.

The room is beautiful. Although it contains a set of massive dark wood furniture, including a four-poster that dominates half of the space, the room manages to feel airy thanks to the row of hinged latticed windows that line the opposite wall, letting in the afternoon sun. The paper, bedclothes and bed-curtains are a delicate ivory, embossed with a repeating geometric pattern. A small settee and table, laid with a tea set, is flanked by a wardrobe on one side and a secretary desk on the other. But the main draw of the room is the view of the rolling hills and moorland that stretches out before the house to the distant, misty horizon. I cross straight to the windows, open one, and drink in the scenery, entranced.

I'm vaguely aware of Professor Grabiner speaking to Mrs. Barton behind me, but I don't turn around until I hear the door close. It's just Professor Grabiner in the room with me now, leaning against the far wall. He raises his eyebrows, and I laugh, suddenly self-conscious.

"It's really incredible," I say. "I've never seen anything like it, except in films, and I know half of those are just a studio set, so..." I trail off, lamely. "I didn't think there were any houses like this left."

"Very few that are still private residences," he replies, "and fewer still that remain fully staffed, even on a temporary basis. Most of the aristocratic families in England lost their ability to keep country houses in the last century due to rising land taxes and the war - well, wars, I should say, but I think that they will eventually be considered a single thirty-one year sociopolitical conflict." He stops musing and focuses on my confounded expression, then moves on. "At any rate, my family... well, suffice to say we weathered those particular setbacks. Though there doesn't seem to be much of a point, as there are only two of us left. Ah-" his mouth twitches. "Well, now there are three. Tea?"

"Thanks," I say, even though I feel as though I've had enough tea in one day to last me a month. I sit on the settee and pour out two cups. He doesn't take his, but starts to look around, examining the furnishings and opening the doors that stand on either end of the room. One of them appears to open into a glossy, well-appointed bathroom. The other, which is located on the wall to which I have my back, opens into a room large enough for him to step into, though I don't get up to see what it is. Instead I pour some milk into my cup and watch the patterns as the white swirls into the brown.

He emerges after a minute. "Dressing room," he remarks.

Right. Dressing for dinner. "So it's a formal dinner, like you said?"

"So it would seem." The question doesn't seem to lighten his mood any, so I change the subject.

"Why the grand exploration, wasn't this your room?"

"Hardly. Most of this-" he waves his hand at the furniture, "is over two hundred years old, d'you think he'd let a child loose around that? I had a set of rooms in the attics."

He was shut up in the attics? It's  _Jane Eyre_ after all, I think, but he suddenly takes on a nasty expression and snaps "And I had a nanny and a small army of tutors, all of whom I bullied mercilessly, so you can take your dewy-eyed sympathy and-" he cuts off, and we stare at each other for a minute. Then he turns abruptly and leaves the room.

I put down my cup very slowly, listening it to it rattle as it hits the saucer on the table, then rest my head in my hands. Things had been going so well in the car; I thought we had gotten over the stilted, awkward conversation and random outbursts. I start wondering what I'd done to offend him, but stop myself. Of course I haven't done anything wrong, and it's stupid to think so. It's probably just a reaction to being back in this house with his father. Even so, I'm beginning to get a little tired of his changeable mood. In fact, I'm tired generally, despite all my attempts at over-caffeination. I take off my shoes and ease myself onto the settee, which is low and hard but comfortable enough despite all that.  _Just a few minutes_ , I think, as the carved panels of the ceiling swim in and out of focus.

The next thing I know, I'm being shaken awake. Professor Potsdam's face hovers over me, her loose hair swinging into mine.

"What a time to fall asleep," she chides, "It's only half an hour until we have to be downstairs! Get up, poppet, come on, now."

I sit up, feeling stiff and groggy. I can't have been asleep for much more than an hour; I feel like I could sleep for another thousand years. The sun is streaming through the windows, a blinding shade of gold - they must face full west.

"Better wash up while I take care of your dress," says Professor Potsdam, stopping just short of pulling me up by the arms.

I enter the bathroom and peel off the suit that seems to be sticking to my skin in the sunlit summer heat. I turn on the cold water in the sink until it feels icy, then scrub my face and splash water onto my neck and arms. It's not perfect, but does make me feel a bit more alert. There's a pair of bathrobes hanging on hooks on one of the walls, so I put one on and step back out into the room.

Professor Potsdam is fiddling with the hem of what I think might once have been my black suit dress. She turns at my approach with a huge pink-lipsticked grin. Now that I'm not so fuddled, I see that she looks stunning, in long, shimmering pink gown that's cut surprisingly low to show off an intricate gold necklace. She gestures to the dress that's hanging from the door of the wardrobe, and my heart drops with despair. It's a plain white silk sheath with a high, draped neckline. The only thing I can see when I look at it is a vision of me upsetting a full tray of salad in aspic - or worse - all over the white tablecloth  _and_  my white dress.

"Don't you think it should be, um, black?" I ask.

"No, no, no, dear, you're a  _bride_ , you have to wear white!" she says.

"Or blue?"

"Put it on," she says, sounding much less cheerful. I take the dress off of the wardrobe door, hanger and all, and go into the dressing room. My suitcase is there, propped open on a small chest of drawers. There's another suitcase next to it, also open. It's dark brown leather and expensive looking, but also battered and scuffed, as though it's been roughly used for years. Despite the decrepit appearance of the bag outside, it seems to be packed neatly, with a cloth covering all of its contents but for an inch between the end of the cloth and the rim of the case. Much different from my cheap little bag, which apparently got jumbled in the trip so that most of the clothes inside are rumpled together. It's a little embarrassing, and I hang my dress on a nearby hook to smooth down my clothes, thanking whatever is out there that none of my underwear had been on top.

As I'm turning back to where I hung my dress, something in Professor Grabiner's case catches my eye - something shiny and a little familiar showing in the gap between the case leather and the cloth cover. I pause for a moment, remembering how embarrassed I'd just felt at the thought of Professor Grabiner seeing the contents of my own suitcase, but curiosity quickly gets the better of me. With one finger, I push the cloth slightly back, and recognize the object at once. After all, it technically belongs to me.

It's a small box, made of multiple chips of colored wood, with hinges on one side and a set of complicated little latches on the other. It had been sent to school back in March, addressed to "Mrs. Grabiner," along with a letter from Lord Montague congratulating me on the marriage. It was obvious that he had completely misconstrued the circumstances - he assumed that I had captured his son's heart. He'd said that he enclosed a seal or key or something to a cottage, telling me to use it for the honeymoon, but the contents of the box hadn't looked like any key I had ever seen. It held a set of small, jewel-like objects - a crystal disk, some beads, a gold... thingy, I can't remember the rest. What I do remember is how furious Professor Grabiner had been when he walked into the mail room and found me with the open box. He'd snapped that obviously there had been a mistake, and had snatched the letter, the box, and its contents away, as though he had caught a child too young to know any better playing with something dangerous. It had been humiliating.

I smooth the cover back over the box, deciding that on the whole it's better to just leave the thing alone than risk another fit of temper. A knock on the door makes me jump, and I whirl around, worried that I've been caught going through Professor Grabiner's things. But the door is still shut, and I heave a sigh of relief.

"Aren't you finished yet, Eliza?" asks Professor Potsdam from the other side of the door, sounding like my mother did whenever she took me shopping and I had taken too long in the dressing room.

"Just a minute!" I say, snatching my dress off its hanger and pulling it on. I get the zipper up the back, but the tiny clasp at the top is fiddly-I can't hook it.

"Eliza!" Professor Potsdam calls again.

"Oh - just a sec, I can't get the hook." I exit the dressing room and let Professor Potsdam give me an appraising look as she crosses behind me and hooks the clasp.

"Put your arms up, dear, let me see." She circles me again, and does one of her magical adjustments around the armholes. "There, perfect." She squeals now, sounding less like my mother and more like one of my classmates. "You look beautiful, kitten!"

I have no idea how to react to being called a kitten, but I try to remember my manners this time. "Thank you, Professor, it's a lovely dress. And you look very nice, too," I add a little lamely. It's an understatement; I feel plain in the knee-length shift next to her in her bright gown.

She seems to sense the cause of my unease. "Don't worry, simpler is better when you're young, you know."

I put on a little makeup in the bathroom - I don't have much, just mascara, powder and lip gloss, but if Professor Potsdam is right about simpler being better, that should be enough. She fluffs my hair, but otherwise leaves me to my own devices.

I'm just putting on a pair of precarious looking shoes when there's a knock at the hallway door. "Hieronymous, is that you?" Professor Potsdam says.

"May I come in?" he asks.

"Yes, dear, we're decent!" she trills in a voice that sets my teeth on edge.

He enters, looking very elegant in a tuxed -  _dinner jacket, dinner jacket_ \- like a villain in a 1960's spy movie. For a moment I wonder about the suitcase that's still in my dressing room, but perhaps he just transfigured his suit. He looks me up and down once. "I suppose it'll do," he says with an offhanded shrug. I glare at him but he seems not to notice. "Shall we get down there? The sooner we go, the sooner we can get this over with." He offers me his arm again, but I don't take it; I just follow Professor Potsdam into the hall and down the stairs, letting him trail behind.

As we walk, I try to remember the crash course in etiquette that I'd had in the car. Mostly what I can remember is to eat with my fork in my left hand, and to say "how do you do" instead of "nice to meet you," or something like that. It all seems arbitrary - if you're polite and kind, who really cares what you say when you greet someone, or whether you eat with your fork in your right or left hand? It seems like just a way for the people who know the rules to discern - and shun - those who don't. Ruminating on this only gets me more irritated.

We're crossing the second floor hallway toward the main staircase, when Professor Grabiner catches up to walk beside me. "Keep your shoulders down," he says, "you look nervous. He can smell fear, you know."

"You're not helping," I hiss, but I press my shoulders down anyway. I try to walk faster, but he catches my arm to keep me in pace with him.

"Do you mind?" he says. "I'm trying to keep up appearances."

I'd like to tell him where he can stick his appearances, but we're nearing the main staircase, and I have to admit it wouldn't really do to have a fight as we're going down to dinner. After all, I'm supposed to be here to help.

"Oh, all right," I say, and take his arm just as we start to descend. Mrs. Barton is below, and when we're in the downstairs foyer, she says "Just this way please," and leads us to a large set of double doors.

Behind the doors is a large, well-lit room full of sofas, chairs, little tables, and - to my horror - people. Lord Montague is closest to the door, talking to one of the staff next to a table lined with sparkling little glasses, and he turns when we enter.

"Ah!" he says, " _There_  she is. Isn't she lovely." He flashes a huge smile and holds both of his hands out to me.

_Shoulders down, deep breath, now get this over with._

I put on a smile that I hope looks halfway genuine, slip my arm out of Professor Grabiner's, and take his father's hands in mine.


	7. Chapter 7

Lord Montague squeezes my hands, then with a deft movement spins me to his side and tucks one of my arms into his. "I hope you don't mind, Hieronymous, but I'm going to have to keep her for a bit," he says. Professor Grabiner doesn't look happy about this, but then again, he hasn't looked happy since the day I first set eyes on him. I have time to to give him one more glare before Lord Montague sweeps me further into the room.

"You're an angel to be so patient with him," he says, "but I thought I'd give you a little break. Would you please allow me to present my guests?"

"Ah," I start, suddenly terrified. "I - I'd be delighted," I stammer. I have no idea whether that's the right thing to say, but he seems pleased, and starts steering me toward a set of people who are chatting and sipping drinks.

He introduces me around the room, and as I count, there are about twelve guests, all of whom are dressed in striking and unusual clothing, and none of whom are younger than sixty. I continue responding to all introductions with a nod, a handshake, and a "how do you do," which seems to be correct. When Lord Montague introduces me as his daughter-in-law, their smiles tend to drop, and they look me over suspiciously. One woman, wearing a peacock-blue turban and caftan-like dress, gives me a sharp look and asks "How old did you say you were?"

"She didn't say, Mrs. Craft, how perceptive of you," says Lord Montague, and he whisks me to another cluster of guests. By the time he finishes the introductions, I've mixed up every single one of their names in my head, even the gentleman with the beard down to his stomach who's wearing a pince-nez and a kilt.

"Fortitude, dear, very admirable fortitude," Lord Montague says, patting me on the hand that's resting in the crook of his elbow. "Let's get you a drink."

"Oh, no thank you," I start, but he cuts me off.

"No, no no, you're old enough that it's perfectly legal here, as long as it's just wine with dinner," he says, and hands me a glass of champagne. The glass is an old fashioned coupe, like the ones in old movies. I take it without further argument. My parents have let me have a glass of wine at dinner once a month or so since I was fifteen (accompanied by a lecture on responsible drinking every time), and a glass of champagne at New Year's, so I have a good idea about how a glass of wine will affect me. Something tells me to be extra cautious here, so I decide to keep the glass until I can deposit it somewhere unobtrusive.

To be polite, though, I have to take a sip, and do. It's shockingly good, much better than anything I've had with my parents. Lord Montague registers my expression as I taste the wine, and chuckles. "Lovely, isn't it? I'm friends with the vintner, this is a rather special vintage." He leans in and lowers his voice. "Otherworld grapes, you know, the rest of these cretins don't have the slightest idea. This one is particularly fine; unofficially they call it 'silver and silk.' I can't drink it myself, doctor's orders, but to see a beautiful woman enjoy a fine glass of champagne..." He gives a wistful sigh. "That, I can enjoy."

"It's delicious, thank you," I say, not able to come up with anything else.

"Actually, I brought it out especially for you. I'm glad it's so fitting," he says, giving me a strange look and running a hand down the side of my silk dress. He's so quick that I barely register the movement, but it makes my hair stand on end - and not in a good way. I turn my head to glance around the room and hide my expression. Professor Grabiner and Professor Potsdam are both engaged in conversation with separate groups of guests, he looking reserved and aloof; she animated and eager. Some of the guests - particularly the woman in the turban and caftan - are still looking at me curiously.

"I wouldn't worry about them, dear," says Lord Montague, "They don't quite understand the way things are done in our community. My son tells me that you're very clever and mature for your age."

"Did he really say that?" I ask, suspiciously.

"No, of course he didn't," says Lord Montague, and I burst into a sudden spasm of laughter. Lord Montague chuckles with me. "Forgive me, but I couldn't resist poking a bit of fun at him. Actually I know very little about you, I'm quite curious. Though I have to assume that cleverness and a relative amount of maturity are a given, considering he chose to marry you in the first place."

He must not know about the manus, then. I wonder whether I should tell him the truth, but decide that if Professor Grabiner doesn't trust his father to tell the story himself, I won't overstep his decision.

"I wouldn't say that," I say. "We were just thrown together a bit." At least that's technically true. As for cleverness and maturity, well, what was it that my husband called me on our wedding day? Imbecile, I think. Not terribly flattering.

"And - if you don't mind me asking a personal question - have you decided whether to renew the contract next year?"

"To renew-?" I start, confused.

He chuckles again. "I keep forgetting you're wildseed. Yes, magical marriages are intended only to last for a year and a day unless they're renewed."

"Oh, yes, I know that," I say, though I hadn't realized that the year and a day rule applied to all magical marriages.

"Yes, it's a tradition that's much more logical than the non-magical custom of marriage for life," he continues. "A bit of an outmoded concept, the idea of an entire lifetime of happiness resting on only one person, wouldn't you say?"

He sounds so like Professor Grabiner at that point, I almost forget who I'm talking to.

"But I'm surprised he didn't explain all this to you when you agreed to marry him," Lord Montague says.

"We had other things to think about," I say glumly, remembering the demon that had me by the throat before Professor Potsdam intervened, and Professor Grabiner's rage that the marriage would be necessary to save me from getting eaten.

"Oh! Say no more." He lifts his eyebrows at me, and I feel my face go hot.  _That_ certainly isn't what I meant, and it doesn't seem fair for him to make that kind of assumption. He smiles and pinches the tip of my chin with a thumb and forefinger. "You blush about fourteen shades of pink; it's very charming. Youth, beauty and enthusiasm. My son is very lucky." His voice takes a rather libidinous tone, and I frantically cast about for a way to change the subject.

"I'm very curious about your family as well, Lord Montague, Hieronymous hasn't told me much about your - ah - history."

"Oh please call me Aloysius, Lord Montague sounds so stuffy coming from such a sweet young lady."

"Aloysius, then." It's nearly as much of a mouthful as Hieronymous.

"Let's take a turn," he says. I take his arm again, and he leads me on a circuit around the room, this time avoiding the clusters of conversationalists. The walls, I realize, are lined with ancient-looking portraits of gentlemen and ladies, in various modes of dress. Possibly they're family portraits, I think, and sure enough, we stop before a large one that shows a man in Elizabethan garb who shares the telltale signs of Grabiner-hood - the hawk nose, hooded eyes, and jet black hair.

"Bartholomew Grabiner, first Viscount Montague," says Lord Montague, looking up at the portrait. "Received his title for his assistance to her majesty Queen Elizabeth in 1601. A small matter relating to the second Earl of Essex." He gives me a look as though it's supposed to mean something, but I haven't the least idea what.

We walk on. "Actually, we can trace our lineage back to the Battle of Hastings, and a bit before; our surname was Grabnier" - he pronounces it  _Grahb-nyeh_ \- "before it was Anglicized to Grabiner. Our family was in the service of Bishop Odo during and after the Norman invasion; that was a time when great personages kept magicians in their employ." His voice grows rather bitter at that last statement. "Now-at least with our family-it's more the other way around, a great improvement."

"I see," I say, with a nod. "And 1601 - that's when your family took its position in Parliament?" I don't really care about Parliament, but Lord Montague seems to enjoy talking about history, and I'll stoop to anything to get off the subject of my marriage.

"Yes, not the most fortuitous century to take a position in government, I'll admit."

Again, he seems to expect me to know what he's talking about, and suddenly a flash of my last year of high school history comes to mind. "Because of the Civil War?" I ask.

"Precisely. We were royalists, of course, expelled from Parliament only a few decades after taking our position, and forced to go into hiding until the Restoration. Fortunately, going into hiding was a bit simpler for our family than it was for most, and we were able to perform certain little services that ensured our position once the monarchy was back in place."

"How interesting," I say, wondering why he won't say what "little services" his family performed for the various monarchs of England. I take another sip from my glass for lack of anything better to do, savoring the effervescent taste of the wine.

"Did you know," says Lord Montague, "a recent study showed that the carbonation that makes champagne so lovely to drink actually triggers pain receptors in the mouth and nasal cavity. Drinking it hurts, on some level, but that's why we like it. Deriving pleasure from pain..." he muses. "How very human, don't you think?"

"Yes," I say, not liking where this conversation is going. I glance around the room again, and notice that Professor Grabiner has extracted himself from the group of guests he'd been speaking to, and is leaning against the far wall, watching us. My eyes lock with his, and he must see something in my expression, because he crosses the room toward us.

"Bored her to death yet?" he asks Lord Montague as he approaches.

"Actually, she was just telling me how interesting I am," says Lord Montague with a smug grin.

"Yes, he was telling me a bit about your family's history," I say, wanting to keep on Lord Montague's good side for now. "It was very interesting. I wish we learned more history at school."

"As do I," Professor Grabiner says, voice sour. I remember him lamenting that Professor Potsdam didn't require first year students to study magical history at Iris Academy, though whether that means we'll study it in later years, I don't know.

"Don't look so gloomy, Hieronymous," says Lord Montague lightly. "I entertain so rarely these days, I thought you would enjoy it. Have you met the rest of my guests yet?" He turns back to me, and says "They've been trickling in all last week so Hieronymous has already met a few, but I was so glad that you could be here after everyone had arrived so you could meet them all at once."

"A fascinating assortment," says Professor Grabiner, making no effort to look less gloomy.

"He's such an awful snob," Lord Montague says to me, ignoring his son. "I hope you'll help me ensure that he behaves himself at dinner."

I grin at this. After the etiquette lecture I'd received about my own dinner behavior, the idea of me regulating Professor Grabiner is pretty ludicrous.

As though on cue, Mrs. Barton appears at a side door and announces that dinner is served. I start to move towards Professor Grabiner, but his father steps in the way. "Apologies my dear, but I can't let you go just yet." He gives me his arm, and I take it. "Hieronymous, you'll escort Dame Sutworth, won't you?" I turn to see a very small, very old lady in a glittering violet dress and rhinestone-studded glasses smile up at Professor Grabiner, and have to stifle a laugh. I slip my still-full champagne coupe onto a nearby table, a little sorry to see it go.

"Don't worry Eliza," Lord Montague tells me as he leads the way into the dining room. "It's generally customary to seat a married couple apart, but since it's your first year of marriage, you'll be seated together."

"That's very kind," I say.

Lord Montague chuckles a bit at this. "You'll find, my dear, that correctness and kindness often have very little to do with each other."

"Is that so? I was always under the impression that etiquette was invented to ensure kindness towards others. Although lately I'm beginning to think it's too regimented to be anything but a form of control."

All of this comes out of my mouth without my thinking much about it; just an extension of the train of thought I'd had while I'd been going down to dinner. But it's the longest sentence I've said since coming downstairs, and it's not exactly the smile-nod-polite-something Professor Grabiner had in mind. I glance at Lord Montague next to me, and get a shock. He's not smiling, he's scowling, and I'm struck by two things - that I must have made him furious, and that he and his son really do look exactly alike.

This only lasts for an instant before his face smooths back into a smile. Behind me, I hear a snort of laughter, and then Professor Grabiner faking a cough, and excusing himself to Dame Sutworth.

"An interesting perspective," is all Lord Montague says, and we enter the dining room.

It's a magnificent sight. The long white-clothed table is lit with four huge candelabra, the flickering light of the candles playing over the alarmingly large array of silver cutlery laid by each china plate. Lord Montague leads me to the head of the table, where he pulls the first chair on the left out for me to sit. He takes his place at the head, so that I'm on his right. Professor Grabiner, likewise, seats Dame Sutworth and takes his place on my right. The rest of the guests file in, including Professor Potsdam, who's on the arm of the bearded man in the kilt. He seems to be pointing his pince-nez down the front of her dress.

As soon as everyone is seated, one of the staff approaches me on the right, pouring white wine into one of the three glasses behind my table setting. Fortunately one of the other glasses already contains water. As the server moves down the table, another approaches me on the left and sets down a small plate with a minuscule bun topped with tiny black spheres. It looks as though I'm being served first, so I wait as the plates are handed out to the rest of the guests.

To pass the time, I look at the array of cutlery lined up beside my plate. There are several forks on my left, knives on my right, and a few spoons. There are also a few items that don't look as much like silverware as they do surgical implements. A cold terror rises in my chest, and I consider the wine for a moment before reaching for the water glass instead.

Once everyone is served, I examine the bun in front of me.  _Should there be a fork for this?_  I wonder, before watching most of the other guests simply pick it up with their fingers and put it, whole, into their mouths. This seems like a sensible way to eat the dish, so I follow suit. The taste is surprising - the bread is spongy, but it's filled with a tangy sort of cream, and the black bits on top are salty and savory. It must be caviar, which I've never had before, but which, on consideration, I like very much.

The dinner continues without much further incident. The next course is a small, handled bowl of clear soup which tastes as though someone liquefied a lobster, followed by a slice of toasted brioche with liver mousse, and little bright red jellied spheres that burst into sweet liquid in my mouth. Everything is incredibly delicious. The servers silently place plates before us, and whisk them away again once emptied. The guests keep a low murmur of constant conversation. It all feels, for lack of a better word, civilized, though I smile to myself as I picture what must be a frantic scene in the kitchens.

Lord Montague commandeers my attention, mostly small talk about the weather, the nearby Northumberland National Park and how nice it is to live with such picturesque scenery, then a little about the house, when it was built, and when the Grabiners first took possession of it. He does most of the talking; I'm back to smile-nod-polite-word. From time to time I try to say something to Professor Grabiner on my right, but he's either deep in conversation with tiny Dame Sutworth, or Lord Montague says something to force my attention back to him.

As another set of plates are cleared, I notice that we're up to one of the surgical implement pairs of cutlery - a pair of spring-loaded tongs on my left, and a wickedly sharp two-pronged fork on my right. I don't have the slightest idea how one would go about eating with either of them, and I start to panic a little as the servers place a plate in front of me. On it are three glistening spiral shells, at the sight of which I sigh with relief.

When I'd gone to Paris with my parents two years ago, Dad had taken us to a boisterous cafe, and had ordered a huge tray of  _escargots_  that I'd flatly refused to eat. They'd been nestled in their shells, looking horribly slimy and just plain weird. It took half an hour of cajoling for Dad to get me to eat a single one, but once I'd eaten it I quickly devoured most of the tray. Dad had to order another one for everyone to get their fair share, and we'd ended the night laughing and licking our buttery fingers.

The use of the surgical tools suddenly seems obvious, and as soon as everyone is served I pick up one of the shells with the tongs, and use the two-pronged fork to pry the snail out of its shell and pop it into my mouth. It's hot, chewy, dripping with garlic butter, and even better than the ones I'd eaten in Paris - although I'd rather be back in the cafe with my parents. It's more fun eating snails with your hands and laughing than with special tongs and formal manners.

There's another snort of laughter on my right, quickly disguised by a coughing fit, and I glance up to see whether I've done something wrong after all. However, all of the other guests are eating their snails in exactly the same way, and by the time I look at Professor Grabiner, he's composed himself.

The courses and conversation continue. It's a lot of food, and I quickly feel full, so as the servers come around with trays, I try to serve myself the smallest portions I can. Fortunately I manage not to spill anything on either my dress or the tablecloth. As the courses wind down, I notice that Lord Montague has stopped eating altogether. He's served with the rest of us, but after a small bite or two he starts pushing his food around his plate, first toward him and then away, the way a little kid would if he wants his plate to look like he's eaten something. Like me, he ignores his wine in favor of water. I suppose since he's ill he's on a strict diet, but doesn't want to make his guests uncomfortable by not getting served. I try to pretend that I don't notice. By the time a shallow bowl is placed in front of me with a meringue floating in vanilla cream and dotted with raspberries, I can barely manage a bite or two myself (though I do eat all of the raspberries).

Lord Montague finally turns from me to the woman on his left-the one in the blue turban and caftan, who has been looking irritated at being ignored by our host for most of the dinner-so I'm able to speak to Professor Grabiner. He's looking more morose than ever, and I'm suddenly afraid I've done something gauche after all. "Everything all right?" I mutter at him.

He gives me an aggravated look. "She's deaf in her left ear," he says, jerking his head toward Dame Sutworth.

"What's that?" asks Dame Sutworth, loudly.

I go into a fit of giggles, and Professor Grabiner heaves a beleaguered sigh. He looks so miserable that I reach over to squeeze his hand under the table. To my surprise, he locks his fingers into mine, and squeezes back, which stops my laughter and makes my face go hot.

It's just then that Lord Montague stands. He doesn't need to call attention to himself by knocking a fork against his glass; the room quiets immediately. "My dear friends," he begins, his resonant voice carrying through the room without his having to raise it. "I'm so pleased to have all of you here tonight. I decided I'd leave the speaking until the end of dinner; you all know that if I'd started before, I'd keep you hungry until the wee hours."

The table of guests laugh appreciatively at this.

"It's an auspicious year for me, as well as for our little group," he continues. For example, I'm so happy to have a few new faces with us tonight. I hope you all had the chance to meet the lovely Ms. Potsdam, who's joining us from Vermont." He extends his arm to Professor Potsdam, who smiles broadly at everyone. "And if you don't mind a bit of personal news, I'm delighted to welcome my son Hieronymous, and his beautiful wife Eliza. I hope you'll join me in wishing them a very happy marriage." He lifts his glass, and the rest of the guests do the same.

Even without Professor Grabiner telling me so, I know better than to drink to myself, so I don't let go of his hand. I smile and hope that it doesn't look too forced while everyone else sips their wine.

"As I said," says Lord Montague, "it's an auspicious year that marks the tenth anniversary of our little gatherings, and I've been both pleased and proud to host you all each summer. But like all good things, this too must come to an end, and I regret to announce that this gathering will be our last."

The room goes very quiet as the rest of the guests look at one another.

"Yes, yes, I'm afraid it's true. But I hope that I can make our last gathering a very memorable one for you all." Lord Montague looks over the table full of guests, a kindly smile on his face. "But I won't keep you longer than is necessary to welcome you all to this tenth, and last, gathering of the British Society of Magicians."

And with a flick of his wrist, the white tablecloth before us erupts into a flock of pure white doves that flap to the ceiling, then disappear into a blizzard of feathers. I'm frozen in disbelief, but then feel Professor Grabiner's hand jerk in mine as he starts to stand. I don't think, I just dig my fingernails into the back of his hand as hard as I can. He sits back down, looking at me with an expression that's half baffled, half furious. "Don't," I hiss, leaning close to his ear. "Look at them!"

None of the guests seem shocked in the slightest. They're all grinning and applauding heartily as Lord Montague nods, acknowledging their praise. Even Professor Potsdam is clapping as though she had never seen a proper magic spell in her life.

The feathers are falling into my hair, onto my lap, onto the table on which the cloth has reappeared. A few sizzle into ashes as they hit the flames of the candelabra. None of the glasses or dishes on the table were disturbed by the birds-it was all an illusion. I twist my hand until Professor Grabiner lets it go, and start to applaud with the rest of the guests. But I can't bring myself to smile.


	8. Chapter 8

As we get up to leave the table - brushing the last of the feathers off of our laps - Lord Montague moves to his left and offers the blue-turbaned woman his arm, so I'm free to lean on Professor Grabiner as we head back toward the room where we'd gathered before dinner. I wonder briefly about Dame Sutworth, but I'm grateful for the time to collect myself with someone who understands how shocked I'm feeling.

We pass into the room where Mrs. Barton is pouring out little glasses of ruby liquid. Professor Grabiner takes one and downs it at a swallow, but I shake my head at both the drinks and the nearby coffee-urn - I don't want to be slowed down or keyed up.

We cross to one of the corners of the room, and watch as Lord Montague begins to move among the guests he'd ignored before dinner, chatting with this one and that. It's not until all the guests have settled into little knots of conversation that Professor Grabiner and I look at each other with mutually dumbfounded expressions.

"How can he do it?" I whisper. "It's forbidden, he could lose everything for doing magic in front of them."

Professor Grabiner just shakes his head, momentarily at a loss for words.

"Do they think he's a - you know, an illusionist? One of them?" I ask.

"My father, masquerading as one of that?" he says, his expression creeping from shock to disgust.

"Well he's right about one thing," I say, indignant.

"Hm?"

"You're a horrible snob."

He frowns at me. "In point of fact, my father is worse than I am."

"And how long has it been since you've seen him - ten, fifteen years? People change."

"You see him living in this antediluvian relic and your argument is 'people change'?"

He has a point, but watching Lord Montague chat and laugh with his guests, it's hard to believe that he shares the same disdain of non-magical people that Professor Grabiner so consistently displays.

"It just doesn't make sense," I say. "It would be one thing if he just started this now that he's ill, but if he's been doing this for the past ten years-"

We're interrupted by one of the guests, a very round, bald gentleman with a red face, who looks as though he's had more than his fair share of the wine during dinner. He nudges Professor Grabiner with his elbow, and says "Bet you didn't think your father was capable of that, eh? He's the finest of the lot, you know." One look at our faces, and he backs away with an "excuse me," and retreats to another group of guests.

"We shouldn't go on about it here, just-" Professor Grabiner starts, then stops. "Oh for God's sake just go talk to someone and let me stand behind you and look bored, all right?"

"All right, but you owe me," I say, and walk into the crowd. I notice Dame Sutworth on a sofa, and since she's the only one whose name I remember, I sit down beside her, making sure I keep to her right. "Dame Sutworth, my husband said that you had been telling him the most interesting story at dinner about - ah, what was it, dear?"

"Macramé," he says, acidly.

"Macramé, exactly," I say. "I wish you'd tell me, I'm afraid he's got it muddled." Dame Sutworth gives me a smile and launches into a very detailed description of double half hitches.

Fortunately, given the relative age of the party, everyone decides to go to bed less than an hour after dinner has concluded, including Lord Montague, who has managed to keep on the opposite side of the room from Professor Grabiner and me all evening. I stand and watch the guests trickle out. Even Professor Potsdam only gives my arm a squeeze on the way to the door, saying "I'll wake you for breakfast in the morning, chick, pleasant dreams!" I don't have time to reply before she's swept out in a swirl of pink on the arm of the be-kilted gentleman. I guess his attention to her chest hasn't bothered her much.

"I'll walk you up?" asks Professor Grabiner behind me.

"Yes, thanks," I say, and take his arm once again. As we walk up the stairs to the third floor and the noise dissipates, I begin to realize just how tired I am. It's a relief to get back to my room, and I let go of Professor Grabiner's arm to open the door and go in. He stays just outside the door until I look back and notice. "Oh don't be an idiot, come in," I say, sick to my core of all the politeness forced upon me this evening. He does come in, and closes the door behind him while I sit on the edge of the bed with a sigh.

"That was-" I start.

"A fiasco." he finishes, leaning against the wall beside the door and crossing his arms.

"I was going to say exhausting. I didn't think it was that bad, except for that bit at the end. Food was nice - am I allowed to talk about that now?"

"The last thing I need right now is cheek," he says, but he's smirking a little.

For a moment, I'm not sure what to say. It seems that none of the questions swirling in my head have any satisfactory answers. Well, maybe one.

"How did I do?" I ask.

"Tolerably."

"If you keep praising me like that, I might start thinking I've done something right for a change."

"Now that  _would_  be a change."

"Cheek," I reply, matching his dry tone.

"Fair enough. What did you think of him?"

"Oh, are we being serious now?"

"What made you think I was being frivolous?"

I click my tongue at him in exasperation. "What do you care what I think of him?"

"I'm interested."

"Interested in what I have to say? Now that  _would_ be a change," I reply, exaggerating the phrase he'd used earlier.

" _People_  change," he says, exaggerating my phrase too.

"Fine," I say, and try to put my thoughts about Lord Montague into an intelligible order. "Well, he's interesting, he's very intelligent, witty, and charming," I say, deliberately ending on the one trait that Professor Grabiner doesn't share with his father. He raises his eyebrows at me slightly, indicating he's caught my meaning. "But," I continue, "there was something off about the way he..." I trail off, uncertain about how to put this thought into words.

Professor Grabiner watches me think for a few minutes before asking "The way he what?" in an oddly gentle voice.

"Oh, I can't - I mean the way he... the way he..." And then it hits. "The way he was playing with me."

"What?" asks Professor Grabiner, sounding as though I've caught him off guard.

"Sorry, it's stupid."

"Tell me."

"Well, I mean, you saw how he was playing with his food at dinner, right? The way he was pushing his food away from him, then pulling it back?"

"Yes," he says, expectant.

"He was doing the same thing with me before dinner. Saying funny or interesting things to draw me in, then saying something - well - inappropriate. Like he was trying to see how far he could push me."

"Inappropriate how?"

Nothing could bring me to repeat what Lord Montague said about my "enthusiasm," so I sputter for a moment before saying "Uh, I mean, just comments. About..." I look at the bed coverlet, unable to meet Professor Grabiner's eyes. "About the pair of us."

Professor Grabiner lets out a breath, and when I'm able to look back up at him, he's pinching the bridge of his nose, eyes closed. "I really apologize," he says.

"Don't, it's not your fault."

"I brought you here, and it wasn't so that you could be the subject of ribald comments."

"No, and it's not your standard meet-the-parents, either. I'm here to help. But," I stand, holding my elbows with my hands, "I have no idea if I've actually done anything. I mean, I am helping, right? I feel like I'm more of a liability, somehow."

He lowers his hand from his nose to his chin and looks back at me. "You're not."

"So what have I done that's helpful besides eat with my fork in my left hand?"

"As I said, you're a distraction. He has no idea why I've gotten married after all this time, and he's... intrigued. I imagine he wants to know everything about you, so he can determine why."

"Why you married me?" I ask, and he nods. I guess it's a good thing I didn't tell Lord Montague about the manus, then.

"So, hopefully, he won't notice me trying to figure out what he's doing with all of those-"

"Oh be nice," I say. "They're just a lot of old people with too much money and not enough to do with it."

"I don't suppose they've ever heard of a charitable organization?" he says, acerbic.

"I don't suppose your father has either," I say. "The cost of that dinner alone would feed a family of, like, twelve. Hundred. For a month."

"A little hyperbolic, don't you think?"

"I'm trying to make a point."

"Point taken."

"What about Professor Potsdam? She seems to be pretty cozy with Beardy McHaggis already, what's she up to?"

"Professor Potsdam has her own methods, and I've long known not to interfere with them." He pauses, mouth twitching. "Beardy McHaggis? Who's being nice now?"

"Even I have my limits," I say, and we both laugh. I guess we're back to comfortable conversation again.

I take a step forward, then another. "So," I start, "what do we do tomorrow? Is there a-" and I stop, because I'm close enough to see that the hand he has raised to his face has four small crescent-shaped weals, red and raised, on the back. I snatch his hand in mine. "What's that?" And recognizing. "Was that me?" The middle two marks look as though they broke his skin; I must have gouged him when I'd gripped his hand at dinner. "Oh God, I'm really sorry."

He looks at his hand. "I hadn't noticed."

"Let me just-" I cut myself off and start a healing spell, though that's a bit of overkill for a scratch on a hand.

"You don't-" he starts, but I cut him off.

"The only magic I've done for months is to spruce up a bubble bath, let me do something useful for a change."

"Now that  _would_  be a change," he mutters, but lets me finish the incantation. I brush the red marks with one finger, and watch as they disappear back into his skin.

As the last one goes, I say "actually I want to call in my favor from earlier."

"What favor?" I look up, but he's staring at the far wall, deliberately avoiding my eyes.

"For talking to Dame Sutworth for you; I said you owed me."

He lets out a breath through his nose. "After I let you claw me to pieces?"

"That doesn't count."

"All right. What?"

"Why were you laughing at me during dinner?"

"Hm?" He looks back at me, and seems genuinely puzzled.

"The snails? And when we were going in? You may be able to fool Dame Sutworth coughing, but I'm not deaf in my left ear."

His expression relaxes. "Well, you took the piss out of him, didn't you?"

I've never known Professor Grabiner to be casually vulgar, and I huff in surprise at his choice of phrase.

"My father's not used to getting talked back to - since I left home, anyway - and I'm afraid you shocked him a little."

I remember the scowl on Lord Montague's face when I'd made my comment about etiquette. "Yeah, well, never underestimate the power of good old fashioned American sassback," I say. "He looked furious."

"It's good for him; I wouldn't worry about it."

"And the snails?"

"You disappointed him; there he was, setting out his most intimidating cutlery just for you, and you go and figure out how to use it immediately."

"He was setting me up?"

"He wouldn't have said anything, he just wanted to see what you'd do. He's a great one for formality and correctness, but only when it suits him. Believe it or not, it actually isn't very correct to intimidate one's dinner guests with the silver."

"I believe it," I mutter.

His eyes go vacant again. "When I was eleven I ate an oyster with a fish fork by mistake, and he didn't permit me to eat with him again for about two years - until I could 'comport myself with the dignity required by our family's station,' as he put it."

I'm struck silent, not by Lord Montague's vindictiveness so much as the fact that Professor Grabiner just volunteered information about his childhood.

"That's... awful," I finally say, but he just shrugs. "Yeah, sorry, dewy-eyed sympathy," I mutter.

He looks back at me, eyes focusing. We stand, looking at each other until he says "I apologize," in a barely audible voice.

"Yeah," is all I can say in response.

"Can I have my hand back?"

"Oh." I hadn't realized I was still clutching it. I let it go, but he lifts it to my hair, touching it lightly, then pulling from it one single white feather, which he holds between his first and second finger before flicking it away.

"Right," he says, and walks past me into the dressing room. I watch him go, suddenly terrified that he's actually going to undress, but he emerges a moment later with his suitcase in one hand.

"You're going?" I blurt.

"Did you want me to stay?" he says, sarcastic again.

"I - I mean," I start, "I just didn't want to kick you you out of your room."

"Remember what I said about my father being correct only when it suits him? It's not polite to put a married couple - magical or not - in the same room, if you have the space. And he certainly does have the space."

"Really? So where will you-"

"I've made my own arrangements. Good night." And with a blithe wave of his hand, he's out the door, down the hall, and gone.

I stand for a few minutes after he leaves, feeling oddly disappointed. But after all, what was I expecting, for him to kiss me? Or another scene like last night? Just the thought of it makes me shiver with embarrassment. I close my door and start getting ready for bed, unhooking and unzipping my dress, washing and brushing. I'd managed to keep from thinking about what had happened last night all day, what with all the anticipation and activity, but now it seems there's no escaping it.

I've never had a boyfriend, only been kissed the once, and I've certainly never been touched in the way he'd touched me last night; it was scary and thrilling, and in a weird way, I think I'd liked it. And if I'm being honest with myself, if I had turned in the other direction, not to leave the room but to graze my mouth against his cheek, I probably would have gone along - enthusiastically - with whatever it was he intended to do with me. But I don't think I would have been very happy with myself afterwards, because I still don't feel like I'm ready for that sort of thing. And I know Professor Grabiner well enough by now to know that he wouldn't have been happy with himself either.

"That's your problem," I say to myself in the mirror, muttering around my toothbrush. "You're reserved most of the time, but then you get impulsive, make bad decisions, and have to run around apologizing afterwards." I stop talking when I realize that I'm pretending to lecture Professor Grabiner  _in absentia_ with a mouth full of toothpaste foam - talk about undignified. I spit the rest of my lecture into the sink.

No, I'd definitely made the right decision when I'd walked away last night, and he'd made the right decision when he'd walked out just now. But if that's true, and I know it, why does part of me keep hoping that we'll make the wrong decision?

I turn out the lights and lie on the bed, which is so enormous I can stretch my arms out and not touch the edges on either side. I wait for my eyes to adjust to the dark, and for my swirling thoughts to settle. Whatever happens between us, I think, I don't want it to be the result of too much to drink and poor impulse control. But I can't think of what, if anything, I do want before I sink into sleep.


	9. Chapter 9

When I wake up, the sun is streaming straight into the windows, flooding the room with bright morning light. For a few minutes I lay in bed, wondering why this seems strange, until I remember the blazing sunset light from yesterday. The sunset through the windows in the afternoon and the sunrise in the morning - that's-

"Impossible!" I say, remembering the name of the room. Of course, it must be magic, made to let in the light at all hours of the day. I get up and open one of the windows, leaning out. It's a beautiful, perfectly clear summer morning, though I can't tell whether the landscape has changed - whether the room itself has shifted to face the light, or whether the light is being refracted into it by magic. I love having a room that's always bright and full of sun, and I decide to learn the spell as soon as I can for when I get my own place someday.

I spend a long time leaning in the windowsill, staring at the rugged heath below, before wondering how late it is - didn't Professor Potsdam say she'd wake me for breakfast? I turn to look back into the room and see the wardrobe opened, and my garment bag hanging from it. As I approach, I see there's a note pinned to the bag, written in, of all things, bright pink ink.

_Eliza-_

_So sorry to break my promise, but I decided to attend an excursion at the last minute. I left this for you today. Don't worry, I'll see you at dinner, chick!_

_P. P._

_P.S. Breakfast is until ten, don't be late!_

I glance around the room until I see a small clock on one of the bed stands - it's a little before nine. I take a shower, dry off and examine today's outfit. It's a buff-colored linen dress with a cream cardigan draped over it. There's even a strand of pearls looped around the hanger. It's a nice dress, but when I go into the dressing room to change, I can't help casting a longing glance at the jeans and t-shirt that I'd worn for the flight at the top of my suitcase.

After I'm dressed and as presentable as I can make myself, I venture out of the room. The house feels huge around me, a cavernous space in which I'm rattling like a small seed. I try to keep as quiet as possible as I descend the stairs to the main floor. A few wrong turns confound me at first, but I manage to make my way to the dining room where we'd had dinner. It's empty - save one young man standing by the doorway who I recognize as one of the servers from last night's dinner. He gives me a cheerful smile and says "Good morning, madam, please help yourself," and gestures to a row of covered trays that line a sideboard. This must be breakfast.

I smile and murmur a "thank you," trying not to feel self-conscious as I take a plate and review the morning's offering. I still feel full from last night's dinner, so I ignore the covered trays and serve myself a bit of cut fruit and a slice of toast, dithering over strawberry jam versus marmalade before deciding on the jam. I'm happy to discover a coffee urn in the corner - I'm getting a bit sick of tea. Sitting down at one of the places at the corner of the table, I contemplate whether it would be better to eat slowly and pretend I know exactly what I'm doing, or bolt my food and run back to my room. I decide on slowly, watching the server out of the corner of my eye. He still looks cheerful, even though he must be hideously bored.

I'm concentrating on spearing each little piece of fruit on my fork when I hear an imperious "Good morning," from the entrance to the dining room. I look up, a raspberry halfway from my plate to my mouth, and freeze. Although she's not wearing her distinctive turban, I recognize the square jaw and sharp eyes of the woman who had questioned me about my age last night. Today she's wearing an eggplant-colored dress, just as drapey as the peacock caftan from the night before, and her hair is dyed an eye-searing shade of orange. Her eyes fall on me.

"Ah, Mrs. Grabiner, good morning," she says, putting a clipped emphasis on the  _Mrs. Grabiner_. "I see we've been left to our own devices." With that, she picks up a plate and begins to serve herself breakfast. I drop my raspberry and watch as she lifts silver tray-lids and inspects the contents. Once she's finished, she places her plate cat-a-corner from me, at the foot of the table, and sits, giving me what looks like a carnivorous smile.

"Now that barmy old git isn't here to interrupt, we can talk."

"Ah-" I start. "Good morning - ah-"  _What was her name, think, think, she asked how old I was and he said I didn't how perceptive of you Mrs-_ "Mrs. Craft," I say, relieved that I remembered that much. "I hope you had a pleasant night's rest."

"Pleasant enough," she snaps, and takes a sip of tea before turning her eyes back to me. "So, how old are you?"

I hesitate for a moment, wondering what I should say, but something in her expression tells me she'll know if I lie. "Seventeen."

"I thought so!" she says. "Mr. Duncan owes me a tenner; he said twenty."

I'm torn between feeling flattered that I can pass for twenty, and nervous that my age was of such concern to the rest of Lord Montague's guests that they'd been betting on it.

"What are you doing with that sour-faced son of his, then?"

"Uh, well, we're, uh, married?"

"Yes, I gathered that much when Lord Montague introduced you as his daughter-in-law," she says, dryly. "I mean, what happened to precipitate the marriage?"

"Um, well, it was a family thing, you know, arranged," I start, trying to feed her the same line I'd given to Julie, making my parents seem like a pair of American social climbers who'd jumped at the chance to link their family with wealthy English nobility. Mrs. Crafts eyes narrow as I stammer out my story; she's apparently less credulous than Julie.

"And they let you choose whether you wanted to marry him, did they?" she asks, after I finish.

"Ah - well-" again, I feel as though I'm being vivisected under Mrs. Craft's glare. "No, I guess I didn't have much of a choice." Mrs Craft raises her eyebrows at me, and I hurriedly blurt "But neither did he, so don't think he's some kind of a-" I can't bring myself to say any more, so I look at the fruit and half-eaten toast on my plate instead.

Mrs. Craft regards me in silence for a moment before asking "And how does he treat you?"

I give her a resentful glare. "He's a gentleman," I say, hoping she'll take the hint.

"Hm," Mrs. Craft grunts. "For an American, you have the  _noblesse oblige_ reserve, though you'll get over it eventually. I certainly have." She starts cutting into a salted fish on her plate. The conversation seems over, so I spear my raspberry again and eat it, letting the sour-sweet juice flood my mouth as I stare at my own plate.

"I suppose you think I'm a nosy old bat," Mrs. Craft starts again after washing down her bite of fish with a gulp of tea. "I was married at your age."

"You were?"

"Yes, this was just after the war, of course. And I'd say it was the worst decision I'd ever made if I'd actually had a choice in the matter."

"Oh." That doesn't sound like quite the same thing, as I'm sure she didn't have to worry about any demons threatening to suck out her soul before having to get married.

"Are you still in school?"

"Uh... yes?" I answer, wondering what prompted this change of subject.

"And is he going to let you stay in school?"

The likelihood of Professor Grabiner taking me out of school because we're married is about the same as the likelihood that he'll put on a fruit hat at dinner and dance the conga. "I think he'd divorce me if I dropped out."

For the first time this morning, Mrs. Craft smiles. "Well that's at least something," she says. "Let's see it."

"What?"

"Your ring, come on, show me."

She's about as insistent as Professor Potsdam. I extend my left hand over the breakfast dishes, and she takes it, leaning close to examine the ring that Professor Grabiner had given me yesterday. "Mm," she says, "this  _is_  unusual."

"It's not exactly a Tiffany diamond," I agree.

"I should hope not," says Mrs. Craft with a look that shuts me up. "No originality in a Tiffany diamond. This is an ouroboros."

"Professor Potsdam said it was a carbuncle," I venture.

"Not the stone, you silly girl, the snake. Snake rings were terribly popular during the mid-nineteenth century, after Albert gave one to Victoria as an engagement ring, you know. That one was a snake coiled around itself, but this one - the snake eating its own tail -  _that's_  an ouroboros. A very ancient symbol indeed, representing self-containment and eternity."

Well that's ironic - a ring symbolizing eternity for our very temporary marriage.

"Most snake rings - most ouroboros rings, for that matter," continues Mrs. Craft, "have the snake wrapping around the finger, but this one, with the snake atop the finger and around the stone... very unusual; I've never seen anything like it. Or... well... hmm..." she trails off, thoughtful. "Where did he get this?"

"Found it in a safe deposit box."

"How thoughtful of him," she deadpans, and I have to smile. She lets my hand go, and I look at the ring again. It is pretty strange, and although it felt awkward on my finger at first, I seem to have gotten used to it by now - I hadn't even taken it off when I went to bed. The stone still looks as though it's generating its own very low-key glow, even though I'm not sitting in sunlight now. It hasn't done its intended job of keeping away personal remarks and questions, though Mrs. Craft seems like the type to ask personal questions even if I had been wearing the standard Tiffany diamond.

"I like it," I mutter.

"Well, that's what counts," says Mrs. Craft. "As I said, I'm a nosy old bat, so don't pay attention to what I say." She goes back to her fish, and I munch a corner of my toast.

"E-excuse me, Mrs. Grabiner?" a soft voice says from the entrance to the room. I look up and see the thin blond man in the wire-rimmed glasses who had been in Lord Montague's study yesterday - Mr. Lewis was his name, I think.

"Yes?" I say, rising.

"Oh, please sit down," says Mr. Lewis with a nervous smile. "Lord Montague asked me to convey his deepest apologies, but he's forced to keep your husband busy with some work today; he hopes you'll make yourself at home and forgive their absence."

"Thank you," I say. "Did Pro - Hieronymous say anything?"

"Ah - no, madam, my apologies." His voice is breathy and weak, but his accent is refined and charming. He seems so desperate for approval that I give him a smile and a "thank you," and let him back out of the room without another word.

"Yes,  _very_  thoughtful, your husband" remarks Mrs. Craft over her teacup. I glare at her, but she seems unperturbed.

"Where's everyone else?" I ask.

"They've gone on a day tour of Bamburgh and Durstanburgh castles," she replies.

"Why didn't you go?" I ask. I sound sullen and know it, but if she's going to ask personal questions, I'm not going to bother with politeness. My rudeness only seems to encourage her, however, as she grants me another smile.

"Oh, I've been all over those old ruins at Durstanburgh; as for Bamburgh it's now a hotel and film set." She speaks the last four words with the same distaste that Professor Grabiner reserves for - well - _her_ , and the rest of his father's guests. She continues: "So, I've decided to take myself on a day tour of Yeavering Hall instead. It's much more interesting, not being open to the public."

"I thought this was the tenth anniversary of your...society," I say, "haven't you been all over the house as well?"

"Well," she says, looking a bit abashed. "Not  _properly_."

I look askance at her as I finish the last of my toast. She, too, seems finished with her breakfast, and stands to walk toward the door. Once she reaches the exit to the dining room she looks back at me. "Well?" she says. "Coming?"

I scramble up and race after her, suddenly afraid that she'll leave me behind if I give her half a chance.

We start in the room where we'd had cocktails before and port after dinner last night, peering up at the artwork on the walls. One of the largest portraits is of a woman with an elaborately curled hairstyle, and a gown that shows off a large swath of creamy  _décolletage_. She too looks like a Grabiner, with her large, hooked nose and hooded eyes. It seems as though the Grabiner features should be striking (if not conventionally handsome) on a man but overpowering on a woman. With this woman, at least, the opposite is true - she puts the men of the family to shame. She looks grand, imposing and almost regal, with a haughty insolence in her half-closed eyes. She'd turn the heads of anyone, male or female, when she walked into a room.

Mrs. Craft squints up at the portrait for a moment before saying "Ah!" and pointing up. I follow her finger to the lower part of the portrait, and see what she means. It's not clear, but if I squint, it looks like the woman is wearing the ring - my orouboros ring - on the third finger of her right hand.

"I thought I'd seen it before," says Mrs. Craft, triumphant. "You can't tell it's a snake from the painting, but the round red stone is quite distinctive."

I frown at the portrait. It seems wrong, somehow, for me to be wearing this grand lady's grand ring. I feel much too small for it, for her, for all if it - the house, the wealthy guests, and most of all the family I've been forced to marry into.

"Isolde Grabiner," Mrs. Craft reads from a folder of papers that she's produced from somewhere. "Born 1817, died 1883. Elder sister to the 13th viscount Montague; never married, no issue." She flaps her folder shut. "I've been researching the family for months, but that's all I could find about her; you'd think with such a prominent family there would be more of a record."

I have a pretty good idea as to why there isn't more of a record, at least in the non-magical world, but I'm not about to say it. "Maybe she was scandalous," I offer, instead. "She looks scandalous."

"Possible," says Mrs. Craft, but she doesn't sound convinced. She turns her eyes back to me, then. "No use moping about like that, let's go," she says, and steers me to another painting - this time, the large portrait of Bartholomew Grabiner that I'd looked at with Lord Montague the night before.

"Lord Montague told me about him," I say, "he got made a viscount by Elizabeth the First because of..." I try to remember. "The second Earl of Essex?"

"Oh, Robert Devereux! One of my favorites," she says. "The portraits show him with a scraggly beard, but I always picture him as Errol Flynn." Her eyes get rather misty. "There's a marvelous film,  _The Private Lives of Elizabeth and Essex_ with Errol Flynn and Bette Davis... He was Queen Elizabeth's lover, you know, near the end of her life. Robert Devereux, not Errol Flynn."

"I thought she was supposed to be the virgin queen," I say.

"Hah! Only for public relations purposes. No, no, she was older, her late sixties, and he was in his early thirties, and he was a very great favorite of hers. But it all went wrong, you see; her councillors were jealous of his influence and poisoned her against him, and he was a failure in his post as Lord Lieutenant of Ireland. He was jailed, his livelihood taken away, and when he marched on London to force an audience with the Queen, he was branded as a traitor.

"Now the film has a brilliant scene, where the Queen gives Essex a ring, and tells him that no matter what he's done, all he needs to do is send her the ring, and she'll forgive him. But when he's convicted as a traitor, she waits for him to send her the ring. Finally she can't wait any more, and on the date of his execution, summons him to demand that he beg her forgiveness. But he refuses! And marches to his death, saying 'they could search the world from end to end, and never find a pair of lovers such as we!'"

Her voice rings through the room as she says the line, filling it with her rich accent, and I applaud, transported. She gives a little bow, pleased and slightly embarrassed. "Shall we continue? There's a lot of house to get through before lunch."


	10. Chapter 10

Mrs. Craft and I start wandering through the rooms on the ground floor, examining the tapestries in the hall, and admiring the floor-to-ceiling shelves of leather-bound books in the library. The latter looks like it would be Professor Grabiner's idea of paradise, especially compared to the scanty school library at Iris Academy where he's forced to rely on inter-library loans for reading material. I wonder for a moment that he could bear to leave this beautiful library in the first place. I climb one of the ladders to examine the shelves of books more closely, but to my disappointment, they're all very ordinary looking with familiar titles - nothing to indicate that the library belongs to an established family of magicians.

As we go through each room, Mrs. Craft pauses now and again to read a tidbit of information she's found while researching the family and the house. It's precious little, and she seems frustrated by the lack of historical record on the Grabiner family. To make up for her scant research, she starts telling me stories from English history, which she manages to turn into narratives as exciting as the most melodramatic soap operas. My favorites are the rise to power of Isabella the She-Wolf (wife of Edward II), and the marriage of Anne Boleyn to Henry VIII. Mrs. Craft lingers lovingly on the details of the executions that conclude each story. She howls with laughter when her description of Edward the Second's assassination by red-hot poker makes my jaw drop.

"Well Isabella couldn't risk leaving a mark on him, could she? Don't look so scandalized, it might not actually be true," she says, once she catches her breath. "Some scholars say he left the country and ended an exile, though the first story is much more fun."

Anne Boleyn's execution is not quite as gruesome, but just as interesting. "Death by beheading was the order of the day, and of course it was customary to tip one's headsman when one got to the block."

"Tip them? For cutting off your head?" I can't quite bring myself to believe it.

"Well yes, and why wouldn't you? The more you tip, the more careful the headsman would be; you don't want him to miss and hit your shoulder or your skull and have to try again. Robert Devereux, for example, took three strokes before he died."

"I see your point," I say, feeling a little queasy.

"Well, Henry didn't want his Anne to have to go through that; I think he still loved her a bit, in spite of it all. So he hired a headsman from France to make the final stroke with a broadsword. She died kneeling upright, instead of with her head on the block, and he dealt the blow horizontally, like this-" she makes a cutting motion in the air with her hands, as though holding the sword herself. "They say," she concludes, "that the sword was so sharp, her head didn't fall off until the rest of her body began to fall."

"Incredible," I say, impressed.

"Yes, well," she says, looking pleased at my reaction to her stories. "It might be apocryphal as well - just about the head, mind, the bit about the French headsman is true."

We continue through a rather boring sitting room full of spindly furniture. "Were - I mean, are you an actress?" I ask. She titters.

"Oh, no, how sweet of you. No, no, I taught the history of England for ages. I wanted to be an actress once, but by the time I actually had half a chance at it... Well, that train had sailed." She gives me a wink and a grin, softening the message a bit.

I swallow, gathering my courage. "So then are you a witch?"

She's silent for a minute, peering at a fussy little painting of a flowering garden that hangs on one wall. "I was wondering when you'd ask me that," she says, dryly. "Marvelous trick that was last night. I thought you and that husband of yours would have a stroke."

"We nearly did," I admit. "So-"

"No, I'm not a witch," she interrupts. "Nothing so blunt. I'm a diviner."

"A..." I start, not knowing what to say.

"I can sense things - read cards, decipher dreams, that sort of thing." She gives me a hard look. "I suppose you think I'm quite barmy."

"No, not at all," I say, quickly. After all, what can I say - that I'm the only witch here? "I just don't know very much about it. Or Lord Montague's society. Is everyone a diviner?"

"No, though some of us are. It's more of a society made up of interested persons." She purses her lips. "Even our interests differ in some ways, but we do have one thing in common. We believe - or, I suppose we hope - that some kinds of magic might be real."

"And what does Lord Montague say?" I ask, a cold stab of terror in my chest. Has he really exposed the magical world to his guests?

"He's rather ambiguous on the subject," she says. "But he does perform the most wonderful illusions, as you saw last night. I think at least half of us come every year just hoping he'll let us in on his tricks."

So they do think he's an illusionist. Well, that's a relief - sort of.

After exhausting the available rooms on the first floor (avoiding Lord Montague's study and the rooms in which the staff are working), we climb the main staircase to the second. Instead of turning to the hallway with the bedrooms, we go in the other direction, into the interior of the house. We come upon what looks like a music room, which contains a grand piano and a bookshelf of sheet music. Although it's well kept and free from dust, it has a feeling of disuse. Mrs. Craft exclaims over the beauty of the piano, but when she opens it and strikes a chord, it sounds sour and out of tune.

"Oh well," she says. "Stendhal said that if music were always perfect, we would never need to fall in love." She herds me out of the room before I get the chance to see whether any of the sheet music is for a flute.

The rest of the rooms on the floor aren't nearly so interesting - mostly unused bedrooms that have sheets draped over the furnishings to protect them from dust. Near the middle of one hallway, though, we come across one very interesting door. It's made of a different type of wood than the rest of the doors in the hallway; it has a strange reddish tinge. Even more unusual, the door panels are carved with row upon row of little figures. On closer inspection, they don't look human, but have disproportionate limbs and odd, leering facial features. I don't like them much, and back away, but the indomitable Mrs. Craft reaches right for the knob and twists. Nothing, happens, and she rattles it.

"Drat," she says, "locked. And it looked so promising, too." She walks off, disappointed, but I feel a little relieved. Funny thing, though - I steal a glance back at the door as Mrs. Craft walks away - there isn't a lock, or even a keyhole. Then I mentally smack myself. Of course it isn't funny at all,  _honestly_ , I think, _are you a witch or not_?

"It's about lunchtime," says Mrs. Craft as we wander into yet another disused bedroom.

"Are you even hungry?" I ask, without much enthusiasm. Both of us look at one another, smirk, and go on with our exploration.

After a disappointing series of rooms on the second and third floor, Mrs. Craft opens a door at the end of one hall, and makes a gratified "aah!" sound. I look to see what she's so pleased about, and notice that she's uncovered a narrow little staircase leading upwards.

"Attics, I bet!" she says with a wicked grin. "Shall we see what's up there?"

"Oh - no - I'm sure the attics are off limits," I start, panicking.

"Why should they be?" asks Mrs. Craft with a frown.

I barely hear her. What I do hear is Professor Grabiner's words from yesterday, "I had a set of rooms in the attics... I've made my own arrangements." Wouldn't it make sense that he'd stay in his old room? If there's one thing I don't want to do, it's go poking around Professor Grabiner's rooms, especially not with the self proclaimed "nosy old bat," Mrs. Craft. He'd be furious of course, and would she spread rumors among the guests about how we're staying apart? I don't want to find out.

But she's already charging up the stairs, deaf to my continued protestations, and I'm forced to follow. The stairs end in a low door that we open onto a large room with a lower ceiling than the rest of the floors in the house. A few windows at one end let in some natural light, but not enough to light the room from end to end. There are a few pieces of furniture, but they're all draped with sheets. Mrs. Craft opens a few doors that line one of the walls, finding only empty little rooms behind them.

"Day nursery from the look of it," she says, surveying the space.

"Where the kids slept?" I ask.

"No, they would have slept in the adjoining rooms with a nanny in another. The day nursery was a space for the children to play, have lessons, that sort of thing,"

"Weren't they ever let out of the attic?"

"Well it's not a prison, but the prevailing school of thought until recently was that children should be kept out of the way until they were old enough to be interesting."

I consider this for a bit. I'm not much one for small children, and unlike some of my friends from before I went to Iris Academy, I had never squealed over babies or sought baby-sitting jobs. But it seems a bit cruel and unnatural to keep children out of sight just for being children. In Professor Grabiner's case, it seems, his father wasn't even in the house most of the time, so there was no one to keep him out of sight from.

I only feel worse when I think of how dejected I became last year when my parents felt so distant - when their letters were few and far between, and our interactions on school breaks were so stilted. They at least had the excuse of having been bewitched into forgetting that I was at school for magic, which in part involved their getting a bit hazy on my existence altogether. It makes sense on the one hand - if a wildseed child has an accident at school, it's easier to let their parents forget about them altogether than to try to explain a magical incident to non-magical parents and risk the exposure of the community. But on the other hand, it feels disorienting that my whole cozy life as my parents' only child could be stripped away from them - and from me - with a simple spell.

But how must it have felt to not even have that much, to know that your parents socked you away in the most remote part of your house because they couldn't be bothered with you? The thought makes me pause. Parents? Come to think of it, I don't know anything about Professor Grabiner's mother. In the letter he sent to me, the one that accompanied the little wooden box, Lord Montague had written a one-off line saying that he'd ask his ex-wife about how difficult it was to live with him, if he could find her. It sounded as though he'd simply misplaced her, that she was waiting quietly under a bed or in a disused drawer, waiting to be found again. But really, it seems as though it's Professor Grabiner who'd gotten misplaced here in this set of rooms, quietly - or not-so-quietly - waiting out the time until he became "old enough to be interesting."

I shake myself a little. This is exactly the "dewy eyed sympathy" that Professor Grabiner doesn't have patience with, and I can see his point. It's not very interesting to be with someone who just goes around feeling sorry for you all the time. Well at least one thing's going right for me today - it doesn't look like Professor Grabiner is staying up here, so at least I don't have to worry about him catching us in his room.

Mrs. Craft is peering at some of the furniture under the sheets. I walk to the row of windows and look out on a stretch of moorland that's similar to what I can see out of my own window, but whether it's the same or another view altogether, I can't tell.

Turning back into the room, I notice that the sheet on the piece of furniture nearest to me has slipped, exposing part of a writing desk with a high back. I move to set the sheet to rights before seeing that one of the drawers is partly open, exposing the corner of a sheet of paper. Homework from Professor Grabiner's time shut in the attic, maybe? It would be cute to see an essay he wrote back when he was a kid, so I can't help sliding the paper toward me and taking it out of the drawer.

The moment my fingers touch the paper, I know it can't be homework. The paper is stiff and slick - it's obviously a photograph, blank side up. And when I flip it over, I suck in my breath in surprise.

It's a standard sized rectangular photo of a group of kids around my age walking down a city street - London I think, though there aren't any landmarks to prove it. It must be winter, as they're all wearing coats, scarves and gloves, and there's a grey tinge to the sky. There's a short girl with black curls in the front of the frame who looks like she's shouting and waving her hand at the photographer, but smiling at the same time, and two boys behind her, running forward and laughing, one wearing a neon orange hat, and the other bareheaded, but with red hair that almost rivals the brightness of the hat.

But the left side of the frame is dominated by two figures slightly behind the curly haired girl and orange-hatted boy. They're not joining in the chase or the laughter, and not looking at the camera. The one on the left, slightly cut out of the frame is clearly Professor Grabiner. And he has his arm around-

"Found something good?" asks Mrs. Craft, and I hastily shove the photo into the pocket of my dress.

"Just a desk," I say. "Sheet's coming off." I make a show of covering the desk back up, hoping she won't notice my hands shaking.

"Oh, well, nothing interesting in a children's nursery," says Mrs. Craft, making her way to the attic staircase to descend. "Bit of an odd thing about the Grabiner children, incidentally. Based on what I've been able to find about their genealogy, around the turn of the century the family's consistently had only one child per generation. That's the past three - your husband, his father and his grandfather."

"Is that unusual?" I ask. "I'm an only child myself."

"It is with most families that have a substantial inheritance; the modus operandi tends to be at least two per generation - an heir and a spare, you know. Ensures the money and the property stay in the family, even if one of the children doesn't survive. Maybe it's changed a bit due to the decreased childhood mortality rates in this brave new world, but you'd think they'd want to be sure."

"Why would that be so important? To someone who's dead anyway, I mean."

"You're a young person from a young country," Mrs. Craft replies. "You really can't conceive the age and scope of the really old English families. Many have been passing down assets for over five hundred years, sometimes longer."

I remember Lord Montague's comment about being able to trace his ancestry back to the Battle of Hastings - that was in 1066, meaning there's been nearly a thousand years of Grabiners in England. Mrs. Craft is right - I really can't conceive of that kind of scope.

"It's all a lot of guff and nonsense over ensuring the continuation of the family name, which is why even after the fee tail was abolished in 1925, families still tended to pass everything but a pittance to the eldest son - even when there was an older daughter who could technically inherit." Her voice goes rather acerbic at this, in a way that almost reminds me of Professor Grabiner himself.

"So what happens to the daughter, then?"

"Tossed a pittance and married off, usually to another family who needs the connection to keep their own respectability. All very exhausting, really." We round a corner and make our way to the staircase to the second floor. "Well, that's the tour, I suppose," she says, and turns to me."I thought I'd write a few letters, but if you'd like to meet downstairs for tea at four?"

"Oh - yes, that would be great," I say. "Thanks for the tour, Mrs. Craft."

"Yes, well I wish I'd been able to find a bit more information. Nothing so frustrating to an historian as an empty record."

"I can see if Lord Montague might be able to tell me a bit more about the family history tonight; he seemed to like telling me about it yesterday."

"Hmph," she grunts. "Well I suppose you might have a bit better luck than I have; I've been trying to get that close-mouthed old git to talk history with me for years, but he has a way of weaseling out from under one, if you haven't noticed."

I have noticed, but I figure it's worth a shot. And I really had enjoyed exploring the house with Mrs. Craft, maybe more than anything else I'd done on this trip so far. At least Mrs. Craft was straight about what she wanted to do with her day, and it didn't involve any etiquette lessons-thank goodness.

I walk Mrs. Craft back to her room, then ascend to mine. It's even later than I thought - way past lunch, though I don't feel very hungry. The afternoon sun is streaming brightly through the windows, and all my things seem to have been tidied up. Even my case has been unpacked, I discover when I take a look in the dressing room, and the underwear, jeans, t-shirt and hoodie I'd worn on the plane and during the past day have been cleaned and folded neatly into one of the dresser drawers.

I could get used to this kind of service, I muse, going back into the room and folding myself onto the settee. I wonder if Lord Montague does die - tragic of course, but he is terribly old and ill - would I get to stay here with Professor Grabiner while he figured out what to do with the property? It might be nice, being able to stay in this beautiful house without all the bother of putting estates in order and dealing with strange guests-though of course I want Mrs. Craft to stay. I could try to find some Grabiner history for her that would satisfy her curiosity without revealing their status as magicians. And it would be pretty interesting to stay in a house-even such a big one-with Professor Grabiner without any distractions...

I have a minute of daydreaming before I remember why that might not be such a good idea, and the whole scenario comes crashing down along with it. What kind of ghoul am I, to be planning what I'm going to do with someone else's house when he dies? That's not like me - at least, I don't want it to be.

And anyway, I have to go back to school in a month, which doesn't leave much time for dallying around ancient country houses. But that thought suddenly strikes me with the full force of its implications. School - I'm not the only one who needs to go back to school. What is Professor Grabiner going to decide to do when his father dies? Or even before then? If he's really reconciled with his father, I guess he won't need to work any more - and if he decides to take his father's Parliamentary position, he won't be able to teach at all, let alone in America. Thinking about it, I've never been really sure whether he actually  _likes_  teaching. He certainly doesn't like his students very much, and that seems as though it should be a prerequisite for a teacher. But then, he seems to have taken up teaching as a preoccupation with preventing young magicians from making the same mistakes that he had in the past.

And that's when my thoughts come full circle, to the photograph still in the pocket of my dress.


	11. Chapter 11

Slowly, as though about to handle a small animal with sharp teeth, I reach into my pocket and extract the photograph, holding it by the edges. All the figures I saw earlier are still there, which seems odd to me; it almost feels as though they should have moved - ducked out of the frame to avoid me, or simply ambled on into another street. I read them again, from right to left. The orange hat, yes. The red hair, yes. The girl with the curls, palm up and facing the photographer, yes.

And the pair of them, on the left.

He's on the far side, partly cut off by the frame, looking as though he'd just passed from the awkward gangly stage of adolescence into something that approaches elegance, accentuated by his height, slim build and posture. His hair is shorter in the photograph than it is now, and almost manages to look as though he hasn't spent an hour making sure it's exactly the right sort of disheveled - but not quite. The thought of Professor Grabiner being painstaking about his hair is so funny that I almost smile. But I don't.

He has his arm draped across the shoulders of a girl who's nearly as tall as he is, but in all other respects is entirely unlike him. For one thing, while he's in head to toe black, she's a burst of color in a bright red coat and a yellow hat which barely contains a mane of chestnut hair that tumbles around her shoulders. For another, though her clothes are much more cheerful, they're also shabbier and not fitted half as well as his. He doesn't seem to mind-on the contrary, he's turned toward her, his face an inch away from hers. He seems to be saying something to her, and whatever it is, it must be funny. She's frozen in the act of turning toward him, a huge smile on her face, as though she's just about to laugh. The smile, like everything about her, is stunningly beautiful. She has even features, clear skin, and a wide mouth painted a striking shade of red that suits her perfectly.

I expected it. I knew she'd be beautiful. I knew how in love with her he'd been-Professor Potsdam told me. What I didn't expect is how much I loathe her.

It's not her flashy, cheap red coat, or her smile, or her lovely face. It's not his arm around her or - I notice, looking closer at the photo - the fact that he's looped his black knitted scarf around both of their necks. It's the look on his face as he's leaning into her. He's smiling - not smirking, but really smiling, the kind of smile that reaches his eyes and lights up his entire face. He looks genuinely happy. Actually, "happy" is too bland, too much of an understatement. He looks blissful. And I hate it.

I want to tear the photo apart to get them away from each other, to tear it across again and wipe that smile off her face. I want to eradicate her from existence, to erase her from everyone's memory, to make it so she never lived in the first place.

And then with a sick sensation in my stomach I think  _did I say I was a ghoul before? No - I'm a monster_.

How could I think that way about a girl who died so horribly, so painfully? How could I think that about my own husband who, as far as I know, never smiled the way he smiled in that photo since she died? If I really did love him, I should wish she were still alive. But I don't. It's perfectly clear that Professor Grabiner had loved her - had loved Violet - then, and that whatever he feels about me doesn't even come close.

Sure, he may have wanted me physically the other night, but even I'm not naive enough to think that was anything but a combination of alcohol, unhappiness, and proximity. That's nothing like the kind of love that lights his face in the photo, or that made him loop a scarf around Violet's neck to keep her close, even though he was already touching her. Even though, from the look on her face, she wasn't going anywhere.

He'll never look at me that way, never smile at me like that. So I can't help but hate the girl who'd gotten all of that, and, I have to assume, more.

A knock at the door makes me jump about three feet in the air, and I whip the photo behind my back before squeaking "come in!" as loudly as I'm able.

It's Mr. Lewis, who opens the door, then cringes at the look of surprise on my face. "Please pardon the intrusion, Mrs. Grabiner, I apologize," he says.

I have to wonder how Lord Montague treats his poor assistant, as he looks like he'd leap through his skin if I ever said a cross word to him. "It's okay, don't worry about it. Did you need something?" I ought to stand, but he'd see the photograph, so I stay seated on the settee.

He smiles slightly. "Lord Montague asked me to invite you to tea this afternoon."

"Oh-that's nice... um. I told Mrs. Craft that I would have tea with her today."

"That's all right, I'll explain to her," he says eagerly.

It's more of a summons than an invitation, then. "Ah. Yes, I'll be happy to, thanks. Four o'clock?"

"Yes - great - I'll come fetch you," he says, a little breathless at his victory. Before closing the door he mouths "thanks," at me.

I wonder briefly if I ought to change clothes before remembering that I have only my jeans to change into - the dress will have to do. It's a little over an hour before I have to meet Lord Montague, so I go back into the dressing room to tuck the photograph into a pocket of my suitcase, and retrieve my book.

I manage to finish  _Jane Eyre_ before Mr. Lewis comes to fetch me for tea. I find the last chapter particularly unsatisfying this time around. "Reader, I married him." How can marriage be the end of the story? Jane has years of having to figure out how to actually be married to Mr. Rochester from day to day, and his assurance that "our honeymoon will shine our life long" sounds hollow. Isn't that how everyone feels about their marriage at first? And how many times does that actually prove to be right? The exception, I guess, is my parents - they seem to be very much in love now, though they have their share of fights. But they've had twenty-four years to figure themselves out. I only have another six months to convince Professor Grabiner not to divorce me - if, that is, I decide I want to stay married in the first place.

When Mr. Lewis knocks on the door again, I'm pacing in front of the settee and tea table, unable to settle my body or my mind on anything. I open the door myself, put on what I hope is a charming smile to calm Mr. Lewis, then follow him down the hallway to the stairs. I briefly wonder whether Lord Montague is behind the scary red-tinged door, but we go the opposite way - down the stairs to the first floor, and into a room that looks like a solarium.

It's the very back of the main section of the house, overlooking a symmetrical garden that rests between the two wings. The sun isn't as bright as it is in my Impossible Room, but there are a few beams of afternoon light that tinge the room gold. Lord Montague is there, in a comfortable chair with a blanket over his legs, sitting by a low table. He smiles weakly as I approach.

"Ah, Eliza, thank you so much for joining me. I'm sorry I can't get up this afternoon."

I suddenly feel terrible for the man. He looks really ill, much worse than he did last night. His skin is papery, and there are deep circles under his eyes. I cross the room toward him and take the hand he extends to me. "I appreciate you inviting me," I say.

"Yes, well, it's not often that I have the opportunity to take tea with a charming young lady," he says. "Please, sit down." He motions to the chair beside him, and I sit, suddenly uncertain.

"Isn't Hieronymous going to join us?" I ask.

"Ah, I've left him on the telephone with my solicitor. You know, it's such a comfort having him around to help me with these matters, they exhaust me terribly." He reaches to clasp my left hand again. "I assume I have you to thank for that."

"No, not at all," I start, but he lets go of my hand and waves my concerns away.

"I never thought about getting taken care of by my own child," he says. "Hieronymous was my responsibility for such a long time, and you never really believe that when they're older, they'll be the ones who have responsibility for you."

I have no idea what to say to this, so I just sputter "I - I'm really glad that everything could work out for you both." As soon as I say it, I want to bite my words back. Of course everything hasn't "worked out" for Lord Montague - he's dying, for heaven's sake.

If he notices the gaffe, or my subsequent discomfort, Lord Montague doesn't show it. He beams at me as a woman in a uniform enters to set down a tray on the table before us with a teapot, cups, cream and sugar, and a tray of little round cakes. After she leaves I leap up to take care of the pouring-out of tea so that Lord Montague doesn't need to exert himself, and so that I can pretend that by the time we're both seated with cups in hand, he'll have forgotten my thoughtless statement.

As I settle into my seat, Lord Montague reaches out to touch my left hand for a third time. "I haven't seen this in years," he says, brushing my ring with the tip of his finger. "Did Hieronymous fetch this from the Otherworld for you?"

"Oh," I say, "no, he found it at the solicitor's in London."

"Hmm," says Lord Montague. "I could have sworn it was with the rest of the collection-but never mind, I'm just happy to see you enjoy it. It suits you." He gives me a benign smile, and settles back into his chair. "Actually, I had hoped to apologize to you, Eliza."

"Apologize?" I ask, startled. "What for?"

He chuckles. "For putting on that little show last night, of course. I ought to have warned you, but I did so want to see how Hieronymous would take it."

"Both you and Professor Potsdam seem to like springing things on him just to see the look on his face," I say, half into my tea.

"It's his own fault, going around looking so grim and serious all the time," says Lord Montague with another smile.

"Well okay, I accept the apology. But I wish you'd tell me what it's all about."

"Can't an old man have his secrets?" he asks, and then laughs outright at the consternated look I give him. "I like Petunia very much, but she's so black and white in what she teaches her students. There's no nuance. Either be the model ordinary citizen around  _hoi polloi_ and pretend you've never heard of magic, or get cast out on your ear, is that what she tells you? Even in America, things aren't quite so simple."

"So as long as they think you're just a good illusionist, it's all right?" I ask.

"Something like that. And they're all sworn to secrecy if they want to stay in our little group."

"A secret between thirteen people doesn't sound like much of a secret."

"You'd be surprised," he says with an unfathomable smile. I don't like it much, so I look away, sipping my tea to have something to do. Poor Mrs. Craft-she'll never get to learn his real secret.

"Mrs. Craft took me on a tour of the house today," I say, wanting to change the subject to the most convenient thought at hand.

"Did she? And did you enjoy it?"

"Yes... She's pretty interested in the history of your family, actually."

"Well she always was rather nosy," he says dryly.

"She called herself 'nosy old bat,'" I admit.

"Her honesty does her credit. She's always badgering me about genealogy and historical importance and all that. But don't worry, I do try to toe the line about not revealing magic in most respects."

Somehow, I feel that Lord Montague's "in most respects" might translate more accurately into "when it's convenient for me," but I don't say anything.

"And what are you curious about?" Lord Montague asks.

"I..." I start, but trail off. The question catches me off guard. "The family history does seem very interesting, but I was a bit more curious about the way things are now."

"For instance?"

"Well, Hieronymous had told me that you're the only representative from the magical community in the House of Lords, but how is that possible, unless the government knows we exist?"

"Aha," he says with a curiously gratified smile. "The answer to that lies in our family's history after all. We're rather specialists in a particular sort of white magic. I'd say we invented it, or if not that, at least refined it to the manner in which it's used today. It's a very complicated, delicate operation, the result of which is that when presented with certain information such as the existence of a magical member of Parliament, the mind of the person taking in that information essentially ignores it as entirely uninteresting."

"I don't follow," I say, as the existence of magical politicians sounds terribly interesting and unforgettable.

"Let me put it this way - have you ever read a book that was so boring, your mind tuned out, until before you knew it you were five pages from where you started but can't remember a single word you'd just read?"

"Yes," I say tentatively.

"Well this spell does that to certain facts. So for example, if I were to tell a fellow peer that I represented the magical community in Parliament, his eyes would glaze over, he'd give a half-hearted nod, and immediately forget about it. There's a psychological element to it, as well... it combines not only the element of dullness, but a sense of relief that the fact isn't the observer's problem. Sort of the way I felt when Hieronymous told me that there's a nastily complicated set of inheritance laws to work through with the estate's trust, but that he'd be the one to take care of it with the solicitor over the time that he's in England. Not only will I forget about the existence of the problem, but I'll actively and happily refrain from thinking about it." He takes a satisfied slurp of tea.

This makes a strange sort of sense after all. "And so that's how the magical community gets kept secret?"

"Only in part," he replies. "It does allow us to function in government without revealing our presence. However, although the spell works quite well on dull things like the minutiae of day-to-day politics, it doesn't work on things like social scandals or crimes. In a way, that's a good thing - you don't want anyone just forgetting about a magician who took it into her head to blast a street full of people into smithereens, for example, but in others, it's terribly limiting. To make someone forget about a scandal, you'd have to cast a memory spell on that individual directly, rather than on the fact that you're trying to keep a secret. And that's a very tiresome bit of business in this age of widespread information - how would you track down everyone who read about it in the newspaper, or on their computer?"

It does all seem complicated, and although Lord Montague seems to be dismissive of it, I can certainly see the point in Professor Potsdam's absolute rule of never hinting to a non-magical person that the magical community exists.

"At any rate," Lord Montague continues, "the Grabiners have always been quite talented at that spell in particular, and white magic in general, and that's led to our being leaders in the UK's community. Hieronymous has the talent, but not the inclination to continue in those footsteps, I'm afraid... his interests were always disappointingly physical-blue magic, black magic, red. I remember how disappointed Petunia was when he refused to teach the white magic courses at school. Though now that he's settled down a bit, I am entertaining the hope that he'll come around after all, which is why I'm so pleased to have you here, my dear." He ends this pronouncement by patting my hand.

"I don't see why I should make any difference," I say.

"Don't you? But it's simple! Family, dear girl,  _family_. I've been waiting for him to recognize the importance of continuing our family. Now that he's married, and I hope not too far from having children of his own, I'd entertained the hope that he'd gain an appreciation of what our family has built, and want to ensure its continuance. I was very much like him at his age, you know, very stubborn, very much my own island. But I did eventually realize what family means. And so I settled down, entered into the family position in Parliament, and had Hieronymous - rather late in life, but better late than never."

I'm not sure Professor Grabiner will ever have a change of heart about going into politics, and I don't like the implication that I'll be having children any time soon, so I busy myself with pouring both Lord Montague and myself a fresh cup of tea so I don't have to answer him right away.

"That's very interesting," I say evenly, as I settle back with my cup. "But I'm not sure Hieronymous is ready to give up his job at this point."

"Well," says Lord Montague, giving me a smile over his teacup, "ready or not."

"I can't really picture him as a politician," I say. But then again, I consider, if I'd just met him I wouldn't have pictured him as a teacher, either. "Did he always want to be a teacher?" I ask.

"Ah - no, that was a rather recent development," says Lord Montague. "But hasn't he ever told you himself?"

"No," I say, not able to look at him. "He's not very... communicative."

"I see," says Lord Montague. "That's a bit disappointing, though there's something to be said about a fresh start. I always cautioned him against dwelling in the past - that is, when he'd listen to me, which was - is - seldom enough."

Neither of us say anything for a few minutes. I sip at my tea until I can't bear the taste of it any more, and put the cup down, half-finished.

Lord Montague finally breaks the silence. "I think you had better just ask me what you want to know," he says, and my stomach twists. He's got me - I've been dancing around the real question I wanted to ask, and it's no good pretending. I might as well just have out with it.

"Aloysius," I start, "would you please tell me about Violet?"

He's quiet for another long moment. "Before I answer you, I'll pose you a question," he says. "Do you really think you ought to be hearing this from me?"

Unexpected tears spring to my eyes and I have to blink them back. All of the jealousy and spite I'd felt while looking at her picture threatens to rise into my mouth, a black bitter ooze, so for a moment I sit quietly until I can swallow it down, calm my breathing and clear my throat.

"No, I don't," I say. "But please tell me anyway." And although it's a wrench, I turn to look Lord Montague full in the face. He looks sadder and more tired than he did when I came in. There's no trace of the rakish leering from last night, the mischievous pushing and pulling that had reminded me of playing with food. Now, he's just one weary old man embarking on a topic long and painfully buried. To his credit, though, he doesn't look away when he begins.


	12. Chapter 12

"I suppose I should start by saying that most of what I know about the situation is secondhand. I learned most of it from Hieronymous' school friends when - but we'll get to that when we get to it. Hieronymous went to London to attend school at sixteen, like all young magicians. I understand that you had formalized schooling up until you went to Iris Academy?"

"Yes - up until my sophomore year of high school," I say. It was a little odd to start over again as a freshman at magic school at sixteen, but I'd gotten used to it quickly enough.

"That's not usually the case in magical families, of course. We tend to homeschool, either ourselves or with tutors, to eliminate the risk that one of our children might slip and let our secrets out, or display magic inadvertently. Most families leave the magical training until school - it's considered that one isn't old enough to control one's magic until one reaches the age of sixteen. I think that's balderdash of course, so I started Hieronymous as soon as he exhibited talent. Along with all the usual maths, sciences, history, literature, languages, grammar, music, art..." he waves his hand, the same dismissive gesture I've seen Professor Grabiner use before. "The basics."

It sounds like a lot of basics, and I start to see why this required an army of tutors. I just nod, and Lord Montague continues.

"At any rate, Hieronymous went to school at sixteen, which in retrospect was probably a bit of a shock to the system."

"Did he have trouble with the other students or something?" I ask.

"Not that I'm aware, on the contrary, he was rather admired for his academic ability and social standing and had quite a few friends. Though I'm afraid he wasn't exactly known for being kind - he could cut someone out of his social circle with just a remark, and often did for certain small offences."

In a way it's hard to believe that Professor Grabiner, the textbook misanthrope, was popular at school, but at the same time it's easy to believe that he'd use any popularity he had to be cruel to those he'd considered beneath him. Of course, I consider, remembering Professor Grabiner's comment about the fish fork, he had a pretty good lesson in how to do that from none other than his father.

"Violet entered school a year after Hieronymous did, and immediately distinguished herself as being one of the most brilliant witches that the school had ever taught, despite being wildseed. Everything came to her instinctively, and she was able to perform at a level beyond what's expected of most adult magicians."

"So he fell in love with her then?" I ask, eager to get the painful moment over with.

"Not at all, they loathed each other from her first day," Lord Montague responds, as if this should be obvious. "He's always been rather vain about being the smartest person in the room, and when she showed up, he was furious with her - every school record he'd set the year before, she smashed; every school master he'd managed to impress considered him eclipsed by her talent. And he considered her presumptuous and gauche. As for her, she thought him pretentious, stuck up and self-absorbed. With, I'm sure, some justification."

"Do you really think so?" I ask.

"Well he is my own son, I think I know when criticism is warranted."

"So what happened?"

"Their rivalry lasted for a little over a year, until partway through his third year and her second. Evidently one of his friends had the bright idea of starting a student chamber orchestra. He showed up with his flute and she with her oboe - orchestras seat the two instruments next to each other, so-" he snaps his fingers. "However it happened, within two weeks, they were inseparable."

For a moment I forget to be jealous, and just feel impressed by the strange, sudden turn of events. It's almost like  _Pride and Prejudice_ \- except that had a happy ending and this story definitely doesn't.

"This lasted for about a year, when Hieronymous was in his last year at school, and-" he cuts off with a sigh, and rubs the bridge of his nose - again a gesture I've seen Professor Grabiner make. "I'm afraid I'm rather responsible for what happened next."

"What do you mean?" I ask, feeling chilly all of the sudden.

"I suppose you've determined that I don't quite share the traditional outlook on magical education as most of the populace," he says. "That includes the general taboo of taking children into the Otherworld."

The chill I feel deepens into freezing. "You took him as a child?" I ask.

"Oh, I wasn't reckless, you must understand that," he says forcefully. "You can take anyone into the Otherworld so long as they're properly shielded, even children."

This doesn't jibe with what Professor Potsdam told us in class-that we can never enter the Otherworld, even when fully protected and even with an adult who tells us it's all right.

"I'd been taking Hieronymous since he was a small child - only for short visits, mind, I'm not completely insane. But he's always been fully protected, and as soon as he was able, I taught him how to protect himself. He'd never had anything to fear - and I suppose that made him a little reckless. His school shared - still does, I think - Iris Academy's conservative outlook on such things as travel to across our borders, but I'm sure that was difficult for him to take seriously when he was, himself, living proof that children can pass into the Otherworld and return unscathed. So if he'd proved one unalterable truth of theirs wrong, why should he listen to any of them?"

Even just listening to Lord Montague talk about it makes me feel skeptical too. Professor Potsdam had put it in such absolute terms - never cross into the Otherworld as a child under any circumstances. That we wouldn't face any kind of punishment if we did, because we would no longer exist. It was terrifying to hear, but the message loses its potency if you know it to be untrue.

"I honestly don't know whether he ever crossed over by himself before it happened. It's certainly possible. All I know is that in the spring of that year, he convinced Violet to go along with him. I suppose he wanted to show her Revane Cottage, it was his favorite place there; he does have rather exceptional taste. At any rate..." Lord Grabiner trails off with a sigh, and is quiet for a moment. "This is where I'm afraid I have to venture into speculation. They didn't tell any of their friends what they'd be doing, probably because of the taboo. They waited for a school break and just... went."

The air around me seems to have gotten thick; it's twice as much work to suck it into my lungs as it had been a half an hour ago. I remember that name - Revane Cottage - it was the cottage that Lord Montague had referenced in his letter to me - and that little box I'd found in Professor Grabiner's luggage was the key. "And what happened?" I manage to ask, my voice no louder than a whisper.

"It's speculation on my part, as I said, but it appears that although Hieronymous taught her how to guard and ward herself from the denizens of the Otherworld, she... well, when the time came to do it, she made a mistake, and the spell didn't take. His worked, hers didn't. I suppose he never double checked, because it wouldn't have occurred to him that she could do anything wrong."

My stomach is roiling; I feel sick. I wipe my palms on the skirt of my dress.

"Now, one of the things one does when one goes to the Otherworld is not only to ward and protect oneself, but to set seals around the building in which one is staying. I hadn't bothered to refresh the seals on Revane in a few years, having had no use to go there-I have my own estate, you know; the cottage is a relic from when our family was a bit more populous. So I'm afraid when they arrived, there was nothing between Violet and-"

"The goblins," I interrupt. Professor Potsdam had told me that much - that it had been goblins that had taken them both.

"Yes, I'm afraid so. It wasn't more than a few moments before they came flocking to the smell of an unguarded soul."

"Professor Potsdam said it was like a light - a beacon," I say.

"Hm, for some creatures I suppose," he grunts, grimly. "Most goblins have very poor eyesight, but their sense of smell is exceedingly keen. And they love the taste of young soul, of course, there's nothing like it. Well, when they seized hold of her, Hieronymous did the one thing you must never, ever do in the Otherworld."

"What's that?"

"Panic. His wards dropped, and they seized him, too. He only just managed to get a communication spell to me before they took him."

"To you?"

"Yes, yes, I was at my Otherworld estate at the time. I dropped everything and teleported straight to where they were, but even then, it was too late to save both of them."

"So... you chose him."

Lord Montague sighs. "There wasn't much of a choice, to be honest. They'd had her longer, so there wasn't much of her to save. But if I'd had a choice... I think you understand, though, don't you?"

I nod. Of course he would have chosen to save his son over a girl he hardly knew.

"But if you don't mind, I'd rather you not tell Hieronymous I said that. You see, in the message he sent... well, he told me to save her and leave him."

If there had been anything in my stomach but tea, I think I would have retched at that. As it is, my gorge rises and I taste acid in my mouth, but manage to swallow it down.

"It was a nasty business. The poor girl was barely recognizable at the end of it, and he... well, he was beyond hysteria. It took weeks for him to recover enough to be coherent, and another series of weeks until he was well enough to return to school. I thought he might need to repeat the year, but as it turns out, he had other plans."

"What do you mean?"

"At first he refused to go back, citing irrational reasons. But one has to complete one's education, no matter the circumstances. I was willing to let him stay at home until the start of the next year, but suddenly he changed his mind and decided to go back before the year was up. I thought that meant he'd finally come around, but as it turns out, it was a calculated pose. He never got to school, just disappeared without a trace. It took me another two years to track him down. I went to his school, talked to all of his friends, asking where they thought he might go, but although they provided me with the information I've just told you about what had happened prior to... ah, the incident... they couldn't help me."

"So - did he go to Iris then?"

"No, not then, but he did go to America. I found him at the Massachusetts Institute of Magic, enrolled as a student."

"Is... that a university?" I ask. I had wondered last year whether there were magical universities, but no one at school had ever said anything about them.

"Yes, one of the more prestigious, but surely you've at least-" He cuts off, seeing my confused look. "Higher education for magicians can take several forms. Some take apprenticeships after their first four years of schooling, some go to universities for two-to-three year stints, some for as long as eight years for post-graduate programs, all depending on one's specialization. I myself received my D.Mag.A from Saint Amphibalus-Oxford's magical college."

The smile he gives me at that is a little smug - he's showing off - but when I don't gasp in admiration, he continues.

"At any rate, Hieronymous had gotten himself into the university under an assumed name without even having graduated school. With a scholarship!" Now Lord Montague is chuckling, relishing his son's cleverness in getting away from him. "I decided to let him alone. He was getting his education after all, and seemed to be doing well, so why bother him? Maybe in a few years we could patch things up, but in the meantime, live and let live. I figured he'd come around eventually - he usually does, you know."

I've experienced this firsthand - Professor Grabiner's tendency to react impulsively to certain situations and take actions he regretted later. The worst had been in the spring, when word of our marriage had leaked among the students at Iris Academy. He'd been furious, thinking I had been the one to let the secret slip. He hadn't listened to my protestations, but had threatened to lock me in a dungeon where I'd be forgotten by everyone who'd ever known me. But he'd come back the next day to apologize-multiple times and, come to think of it, abjectly. He told me that his threat had been a hollow one, which didn't make it any less terrifying. But in a way it had opened the door for us to really be able to talk to one another. Still, that had been the most angry I'd ever seen him, and he had "come around," so to speak, in less than twenty-four hours. Where Lord Montague was concerned, it had taken over a decade.

"I really thought he'd stay in Cambridge, receive a doctorate and go into pure research, but he stopped his studies right after he'd received his first post-graduate degree. Again, he disappeared without a trace, and I was frantic - I thought he'd use his education to do something foolish, though I admit I had no idea what. Imagine my surprise when just a few weeks later, Petunia showed up at my doorstep in London to ask me whether I knew that my son had just applied for a position at her school, and if so, why was he using a false name?" He laughs again.

"Professor Potsdam?" I ask, surprised.

"Yes, that was how we came to know each other. I have a great deal of respect for her; she's quite fierce in her way. Hieronymous could outfox the entire admissions board of the best magical university in North America, but in the end, she's the one who outfoxed him. I ended up telling her the whole story, as I've just told you, and she decided to accept his job application on the condition that he go back to using his real name. He eventually capitulated, as you've probably guessed. The university wasn't too happy when they were informed of his subterfuge of course, but I was able to smooth things over and allow him to keep his degrees."

Yes, I'm sure he did - by throwing a mountain of money at the problem. "So the university got a shiny new lab?" I guess.

"More like a shiny new campus," Lord Montague says with a wink, and I can't tell whether he's joking or serious.

"So that's how he became a teacher," I say. It's a strange story, and not a very nice one. I'm not sure how much better off I am knowing Professor Grabiner's history than I was not knowing it.

"Yes, though I've never been clear on what his motivation was to start teaching in the first place. I'd been trying to convince him to at least write to me for years before fate eventually intervened." He gives a self-deprecating little wave.

"That's a long time for someone to come around," I venture. It's an extreme reason too, though I'm not going to say so in front of Lord Montague, who doesn't need any more reminders that he's dying.

"I'm afraid so," he says. "We didn't exactly leave things on good terms."

"But like you said, he usually comes around. I don't see what could have made him stay away so long. Was it-" I hesitate, but I've gone too far to stop now. "Was it because you saved him instead of her?"

"Oh, no. No," Lord Montague says with a sigh. "We never really discussed it, but from the state of her when I got there, I think that even he has to concede that there was nothing I could do."

"Then was there something that set him off?"

"It might just be another speculation of mine, but I do tend to think it was the last argument we had before he finally told me that he'd go back to school for the year. It was the worst we'd ever had, and in retrospect I was rather foolish to think he'd gotten over it as quickly as he pretended to."

"So what was it about?"

"Well..." he says, then looks away for a long moment before concluding. "I had the audacity to tell him that it wasn't his fault."


	13. Chapter 13

I can't think of anything else to say, but sit in silence, trying to process the story I've just heard and not succeeding; watching a beam of sunlight arch from one of the windows and onto the carpet.

"And now, my dear, I think I'm a little tired," says Lord Montague, and I leap up, almost upsetting the tea table.

"Of course - I'm sorry I kept you so long."

"Not at all, it's a pleasure to spend time with you," he says, smiling beatifically. He looks even worse than he did when I came in, though, and I worry that the effort of telling the story has worn him out. "Dinner will be later tonight, as everyone will have to come back and then dress. Cocktails at seven-thirty, at this rate. I might need to assign hosting duties to you and Hieronymous, if you don't mind, I rarely eat late."

_Or at all_ , I consider, noticing the untouched tray of cakes on the table.

"Yes, that would be fine, I know you need your rest-" I'm babbling, and force myself to cut off. "Well, thanks again for tea, and - ah - feel better?" I end the last phrase on a question, wincing to myself at how stupid I sound. Then, halfway to the door I remember that I'm just leaving him there without anyone to help him up. "Do you need anything?"

He chuckles at my obvious distress. "Just ask Mr. Lewis to come in when you go; he'll be outside the door." I don't know what to say to that, so I just duck out the door, happy to be away at last. Mr. Lewis is outside the door, but I don't have to say anything to him - he just gives me his thin, nervous smile and slips into the room as quickly as I slipped out. I wonder if he'd been there the whole time, just waiting for Lord Montague to call him in.

I manage to make it a few steps down the hall before I'm weighed down with a crippling sense of guilt. How could I interrogate poor, ill Lord Montague for so long about a subject he obviously wanted to forget? I hope I'm not the reason he decided not to attend tonight's dinner. I wonder how I'm going to break the news about having to play host to Professor Grabiner - he won't be happy at all, especially after dealing with the solicitor all day.

It's still too early to dress for dinner - the house is so quiet, I figure nobody is back from their excursion to the castles on the coast. I briefly wonder if I should try to find Mrs. Craft again, then wonder whether she'll be cross with me for breaking our appointment for tea. No, I can't face anyone right now. But then I have a thought - the library, maybe I can borrow a new book now that I've finished  _Jane Eyre_. I feel such a strong sense of relief at the thought of having something to do that I decide to head to the library at once.

When I push the door open, I feel a sense of peace rippling up my entire torso. It's wonderful to finally be in a room by myself, and where no one expects me to be, so they can't barge in on me. The rows of books look inviting, with their leather spines gleaming in the late afternoon sun, so I wander to a random shelf and start reading the titles again. Part of me hopes I'd overlooked some magical titles on our tour of the house this morning, but again all of the books that catch my eye are obviously non-magical. _The Decline and Fall of the Roman Empire_ ,  _The Early History of Rome_ ,  _The Twelve Caesars_ ,  _The Fall of the Roman Republic_... I like Roman history fine, but I think I'm in the mood for fiction. I cross to another bookshelf, and then another. This one seems more promising-I see  _The Canterbury Tales_ , a book I've been meaning to read, but never had the occasion to pick up. My optimism ends, though, when I flip the book open and discover that it's written entirely in Middle English, with no modern translation. I peer at the half-familiar, half-alien words for a minute before deciding I don't have the patience for it after all. I slam the book shut and shove it back on the shelf.

"You might want to be careful with that; it's about ten times as old as you," says a voice behind me, and I jump, whirling around. Professor Grabiner is sitting in a chair in the corner with a book open in one hand. I huff in shock, pressing myself into the bookshelf.

"You shouldn't sneak up on me like that," I say, trying to catch my breath.

He smirks at me. "I think I was here first." His tone is light, a bit playful, and part of me warms to it, wants to perch on the arm of his chair, rest my chin on the top of his head and ask him what he's reading. But the rest of me - most of me - feels sick just looking at him. So I look at the floor.

"Yeah - sorry - I was just looking for a book?" My voice sounds thin and wavery, and I clear my throat, glancing back up at Professor Grabiner.

He's frowning. "Are you all right?" he says.

"Oh, yeah, fine," I answer, aware of how high pitched and fake I sound.

"Did he say something to you? Another nasty comment?"

And I feel another stab of guilt. I should have been trying to help Professor Grabiner by figuring out information about his father, but I've been digging for personal information about him instead - information he probably wouldn't volunteer himself. And it's only worse to see him get concerned over whether I've been upset by his father.

"No, he was fine," I start, then realize I'm saying that too many things are "fine" for them to actually be fine. "He was a perfect gentleman. He just... looked really ill. I mean terrible."

"Mmm. I thought he was malingering, myself."

"Faking? Oh - I don't know." Lord Montague certainly hadn't looked like he'd been faking how ill he felt. "Though he did seem pretty eager for you to do the legal work for him today," I admit. "Things go okay?"

Professor Grabiner rolls his eyes. "With the solicitor? The man's a dolt. I think I know more about inheritance law than he does."

"I'm not surprised, all that time you spent in law school," I say, not able to resist needling him a bit. He gives me a look that would have been waspish if he hadn't been trying not to smile.

"Yes, well, my legal expertise aside, my father's choice of solicitors is particularly unfortunate."

"So did you give up or what?"

He snorts in derision. "He's got a trainee with a head on her shoulders at least. He had another meeting so I kept her on the line, and between the two of us we were able to work out a reasonable plan for restructuring the estate. She's writing it up, so I thought I'd take a break. I just hope it doesn't give her boss the chance to come in and muck things up." He gives me a faint smile, propping his chin on one hand.

He's in a strikingly good mood, so I consider whether I should just give up and admit to the entire thing - finding the photo, asking Lord Montague to tell the story - all of it. But then I think about how mercurial he can be, how he can flip from calm to furious in a flash. And I remember how it felt to be pinned against a wall by invisible hands, terrified that I'd spend the rest of my days locked in a dungeon, forgotten by everyone, even my own parents.

So I don't say anything but "ah - good luck, then."

His smile drops again. "Are you sure you're all right?"

"Yeah, yeah, it's just - uh-" I struggle to think of something that might explain my reticence, then hit on it. "Your father said he might be too ill to host dinner, so we might need to take over instead."

Professor Grabiner gives a disgusted sigh and rubs his eyes with one hand. "You can't be serious."

"Well, I mean, he didn't say anything definite, but..."

"If he thinks I'm going to simper around that lot the way he does-"

"He's not asking you to simper, he's asking you for  _help_ ," I snap, surprising myself at my vehemence.

"What?" Professor Grabiner says back, his voice soft but sharp.

"You heard me," I reply, anger briefly submerging the fear I'd felt earlier.

"My father is perfectly capable of seeing to his own guests," he says, peevish now.

"Except he just told me that he isn't!"

"Well he might have thought of that before he invited them."

"And you might have thought about that before you agreed to help him," I retort.

He doesn't say anything and for a moment I realize I might have just won this argument.

"In that case, I suppose I have rather a lot to be getting on with," says Professor Grabiner after a pause.

"I'll let you get to it, then," I say, and turn to leave.

"Didn't you say you wanted a book?" he says, and I stiffen. I want to walk out, but somehow that seems as though it would be admitting defeat after all.

"Anything modern?" I ask, trying to sound nonchalant.

"Try that shelf." He points to a section on the far wall, and I cross to it. Most of it is still pretty old, so I snag the first book that catches my eye -  _Heart of Darkness_ by Joseph Conrad. That and  _Moby Dick_ are my Dad's two favorite books, and he's been getting on me to read them for the past few years. I hadn't read either yet, but considering how well the title reflects my current emotional state, I decide I might as well give this one a try.

Turning back, I see that Professor Grabiner is still sitting with his chin cupped in one hand, still frowning, watching me.

"Well, see you at dinner," I say. "If you decide to show up." His expression darkens, and I think  _he's hurt. I can hurt him_. I almost stop and try to take it back, but at the last moment turn my face away and rush to the door, clutching my book.

I go straight to my room and fling myself onto the bed with a groan. Now  _that_  was a fiasco, I think, burying my head into the coverlet. Not just the strange half-argument with Professor Grabiner, but the entire day. What on earth am I doing here, really, I wonder. And suddenly I feel a third pang of guilt - I'm supposed to be here helping Professor Grabiner figure out what's going on with his father, and here I am siding with Lord Montague in an argument. I ought to be feeling more compassion toward my own husband rather than to an old man I barely know, but the way Professor Grabiner acts sometimes-well, it's infuriating, especially the way he talks about Lord Montague's guests, as though they were objects or insects, rather than people.

I try to distract myself by opening my new book, but it's no use. Before I know it, I'm several pages into the introduction, without remembering a word of what I'd read. _Just like Lord Montague said_ , I think sardonically.  _He might as well have cast that spell of his on this book_.

I turn onto my back, hanging my head down the side of the bed that faces the windows. I wonder if Lord Montague really is going to beg off hosting duties tonight, and if he does, will it have been my fault for wearing him out? I guess it's a good thing I didn't tell Professor Grabiner about the photo and the story, then - the compounded indignity of having his personal life revealed as well as hosting dinner would have landed me in a dungeon for sure. Or, at least, snatched out of the house the way he'd snatched that strange little box out of my hands last March.

But it's funny, now that I think about Lord Montague's story. The box is - I think - a key to Revane Cottage, where Violet had ostensibly met her end - or at least where she'd been overcome by goblins and carried off. But if that's the case, why on earth would Lord Montague think it was a good idea to have given the key to that cottage as a wedding present?  _Have a lovely honeymoon in the house where your first girlfriend was kidnapped and killed_ \- what kind of message is that? And it's not like he could have forgotten - he told me he'd been there and seen her die. With a shiver, I remember Lord Montague's kindly demeanor as he told the story, so different from the creepily flirtatious way he'd treated me at last night's dinner. Was the kindness all an act? Or was the flirtatiousness? Or both? And what am I going to do now that I've ensured that I can't tell the one person who might be able to make sense of all this?

Then it hits me - there's one other person I can tell - Professor Potsdam. If she stops talking and buzzing around for long enough for me to ask her, that is. I'll be able to corner her when she comes up before dinner with whatever new dress she's concocted for me. The thought calms me down, and I resolve to wait until she gets back to the house.

I give the book another chance, starting again at the beginning, and this time it takes. I'm immediately swept up in the hypnotic description of the bright lights of London as seen from the narrator's boat on the Thames, the light occupying what he claims was once one of the dark places of the world.

I'm a quarter of the way through the rather short book before Professor Potsdam bursts into the room without knocking. By this time the sun is low on the horizon, casting orange beams of light that are just beginning to turn to red. I blink at her, my mind still half on the coast of Africa.

"Hello dear," she says, hooking a garment bag on the wardrobe. "Have a nice day?"

"It was...interesting," I say, wondering where to begin. "How were the castles?"

"Just outstanding, lamb, I  _wish_  you could have come!" she chirps, ignoring the fact that I hadn't even been told about the excursion until everyone had already left. She launches into a gushing description of the very grand Bamburgh castle with its beautifully preserved furnishings and gardens, then moves to the majestic ruins of Durstanburgh. She barely draws a breath during this extended monologue, and I barely get a word in that isn't "oh," or "ah," or "wow."

During all of this, she's shepherding me around the room, putting me through the motions of washing up, fixing my hair and donning my minimal makeup. When she shoves me into the dressing room with the garment bag, she's in the middle of a story about Dame Sutworth daringly scaling a crop of stones at Durstanburgh and nearly cracking her head for her pains. Professor Potsdam doesn't pause the story when she shuts the door behind me, but stands just outside and raises her voice.

Even the change in volume when the door closes behind me is a relief, and my mood lifts further when I see the dress she's brought. It's much simpler than last night's silk sheath - a plain cream-colored linen dress, with a full skirt to the knee. I'm not wild about Professor Potsdam's apparent obsession with dressing me in various shades of white, but at least I've already proved that I can get through a dinner without spilling anything on myself.

After dressing, I dutifully re-enter my bedroom and let Professor Potsdam fuss over adjusting the fit of the dress, still gabbing about Dame Sutworth's unexpected wild streak. I wait until she pauses briefly before interrupting her.

"Professor Potsdam?"

"Hmm?" she says, tugging at the hem of my skirt until it falls just so.

"How long have you known Lord Montague?" It's a lame start, but I figure it's at least a way to determine how much of the story Lord Montague told me was true.

"Oh, nearly ten years now, I think, he's quite something isn't he?"

"I guess so," I say. "Are you - like - friends?"

"That's a deplorable habit, I'm certainly not 'like' anything."

"Sorry," I say, abashed. "But are you friends? Do you like him?"

"Lord Montague is one of the most important figures in the United Kingdom's magical community, and he's a great benefactor of Iris Academy," she replies. "As to whether I like him... well, that's a little beside the point, isn't it?"

"But, I mean, what do you think of him doing magic like that, in front of his guests last night? It's forbidden, so aren't you going to-"

"I'm not going to do anything," says Professor Potsdam.

"But-" I start.

"Eliza, try to understand - you are my student, and as my student, I am directly responsible for your behavior. If you chose to display magic before these guests, it  _would_ be incumbent on me to take the necessary actions to ensure you did not do it again. Lord Montague, however, is  _not_  my student, and is not under my authority. As a consequence, it is not up to me to dictate what he does in his own house, before his own guests."

Her tone is much sharper than I'm used to. I've come to expect a certain amount of vitriol from Professor Grabiner as a matter of course, but coming from the normally saccharine Professor Potsdam is a bit of a shock. Her attitude towards Lord Montague's magic use also strikes me as strange - isn't it a little like watching someone commit a crime, but just standing by without calling the police or anything? But then, I don't know as much about the mores of the magical community as Professor Potsdam does - maybe most magicians share her attitude.

"Just curious," I mutter, giving up on my questions and feeling like a failure.

Professor Potsdam looks at her tiny gold watch. "All ready? We'd better go down."

"Isn't Professor Grabiner going to come up?" I ask.

"Oh goodness no, his father's ill so he's had to take over hosting duties."

So Lord Montague was too ill to host dinner after all. Poor Hieronymous.

Professor Potsdam smiles at me and pats my cheek, her former sharpness melted away. "Oh, dear, how sweet - don't worry, we'll see him in just a few minutes. Come along!"

I decide not to protest, but follow her downstairs to dinner.

When we get to the large room with the portraits where we'd gathered last night, everyone is there already - except for Lord Montague, of course. The room is buzzing with conversation and laughter; everyone seems to be having a very nice time. There's a large crowd around Dame Sutworth - the guests are toasting to her derring-do. I catch the eye of Mrs. Craft, who is slightly apart from the crowd and in conversation with Beardy McHaggis, who has donned trousers for this less formal dinner. When she sees me, she grins and waves a piece of paper in my direction. As I approach, I see that it's a ten-pound note-Mr. Duncan must have paid up after all.

When Beardy - a.k.a. Mr. Duncan - notices Professor Potsdam and me approaching, he speeds straight to Potsdam's side. Small wonder, I think, as her dress is just as low-cut as last night's. "Pig," mutters Mrs. Craft, giving his back a glare. "I should have bet him twenty pounds, that'd wipe the smile off his face quickly enough."

"Not for very long," I say, watching Mr. Duncan talk animatedly to Professor Potsdam's chest.

"Hmph," grunts Mrs. Craft. She starts walking around the room for a better view of the rest of the crowd, and I follow, not wanting to have to speak to anyone else just yet. "Well, I suppose I've missed an exciting outing, have you heard the story already?"

"About Dame Sutworth? Oh, yeah," I say, glancing around at the guests who are still crowded around the tiny woman.

"And for what?" Mrs. Craft complains. "A fruitless exploration and tea by myself."

"Ah - yeah - sorry about that," I say.

"Oh, I'm not angry, the duties of family always do take precedent," she says, handing me a glass of champagne from a table as we pass it, and taking one for herself. "I heard he's too ill to join us at dinner, though."

"Mmhm. He looked really terrible at tea."

"Unfortunate, but estate law will do that to a man. Though your husband seems to be taking it in good stride."

"Huh?" I say. I hadn't seen Professor Grabiner yet, so I whip my head around to see if he's sulking in one of the corners of the room.

"No, no, just there," Mrs. Craft says with a grin, and points into the thick of the crowd around Dame Sutworth. It takes me a minute to find him, because he's not skirting the edges of the group and avoiding everyone, but actually chatting with the other guests. In fact, he doesn't look at all reserved or aloof, as he had last night, but engaged in the conversation. As I watch, he makes a point of either speaking or listening to everyone in the group, making an effort to at least appear that he's enjoying himself. At this moment, he resembles nothing so much as his own father in his interactions with the guests yesterday. The effect is, to me, flabbergasting.

"What's gotten into him, I wonder?" muses Mrs. Craft as I gawk.

"I have no idea," I say, and drink half of my glass of champagne at one gulp.


	14. Chapter 14

I spend the remaining time before dinner chatting with Mrs. Craft and watching Professor Grabiner out of the corner of one eye. He doesn't look in my direction once, but continues moving amongst the other guests being - for lack of a better description - polite. This continued solicitousness towards people he was insulting just this afternoon unnerves me so much that I finish my first glass of champagne and half of another before realizing that I've never drunk so much so quickly.

Noticing my distraction, Mrs. Craft starts telling me stories again, this time about Henry VIII's fourth and fifth wives. Both of us get rather giggly as she goes into the details of how Henry was deluded into thinking that Anne of Cleves was beautiful only to declare "I like her not" upon seeing her in person. Their six-month, unconsummated marriage ended in her receiving a large settlement and a place at court as the King's "beloved sister."

Catherine Howard's story begins as equally funny, with her marrying the king very young, and struggling to produce his desired son in the face of Henry's obesity and impotence. Mrs. Craft has me gasping for air when miming Catherine's attempts to explain to her conniving uncle, the Duke of Norfolk, the reason why the king was incapable of producing an heir. Her story doesn't end so happily - she's caught in an affair with a dashing young courtier, and beheaded. She didn't even have the benefit of a French headsman - and she was only nineteen.

I suddenly don't feel quite so giggly. I cast around the room again, surveying the guests, all of whom are chatting and laughing with each other. I don't see Professor Grabiner in the crowd, now. All of it makes me feel very separate, alone among so many people.

"What's wrong, then?" asks Mrs. Craft, the gaiety she'd expressed when telling her stories now subdued.

"Oh, I don't know," I say, suddenly embarrassed. "I guess I just haven't heard any stories today that don't end in either divorce or death. Well, one," I correct myself, remembering the end of  _Jane Eyre_ , "but it ended when the characters got married, it wasn't a  _real_  ending. I just -after you get married, aren't there any happy endings? That don't cut off just before the real work starts?"

Mrs. Craft stares at me evenly, then tosses back the rest of her wine. "Even happy endings eventually end in death," she says. "I suppose the only question is whether we get a French headsman, or only an axe."

That doesn't make me feel any better at all, and I feel my shoulders slump.

"Oh, don't look at me like that," says Mrs. Craft. "I was only being fatalistic. Death isn't a sad ending if you've had a good life, after all. Cheer up." I don't cheer up, so she pats my hand in a comforting way. "Why don't I read your cards tomorrow, would you like that? It might take a bit of uncertainty out of the future."

"Cards?" I ask, incredulous. I'd never really believed in card readings or divination, even after I discovered that magic was real. We'd never learned about fortune telling at school, and no one ever mentioned card readings, or tea leaves, or scrying, or anything like that.

"Of course! I told you, I'm a diviner. I'm very good at these things," she says, with a brilliant smile.

"Well..." I start, considering. I can only imagine what Professor Grabiner would say if he knew I'd accepted a card reading from one of the "charlatans," but then, in a way, his disdain makes the invitation all the more enticing. "All right. Tomorrow." And I smile once again.

Mrs. Barton appears to announce that dinner is served, and I hear a cough behind me. I turn to see Professor Grabiner standing behind the sofa where Mrs. Craft and I are sitting. I give a start - half in surprise, and half in guilt. I hadn't heard him approach us, and I hope he hadn't heard me agreeing to the card reading, which he'd probably consider the basest form of chicanery. I can't tell - he's keeping up his act of good humor, which is to say, he isn't scowling.

I stand to take his arm, but stumble a little - the sudden change from sitting to standing makes me dizzy. Professor Grabiner's around the sofa in a moment, and he catches my arm to steady me. Suddenly I'm reminded of that night in November, when I'd gotten wobbly from standing too long at the school fundraiser. He'd whisked me straight out of the mall and gotten me a cup of chai, which I'd never had before. Looking up at him as he straightens me, I feel a sudden pang, wishing he'd whisk me out of here, away from the crowd in this stuffy room. But that won't happen, I realize as I come rushing back to myself. And suddenly I feel my face go red; I'm embarrassed at being caught in an unguarded moment, and worse, a bit tipsy from the wine.

"All right?" Professor Grabiner mutters as I start pulling away from his grip.

"Fine," I say, doing my best to sound nonchalant. I take his arm and we walk toward the dining room, me trying to walk steadily. He narrows his eyes at me as we go, but I look away. I won't give him any further indication that I'm anything other than completely together.

When we enter the dining room, Professor Grabiner seats me at the foot of the table, and I watch, half relieved and half dismayed, as he takes his place at the head. I can barely see him behind the candelabra that are set on the table. At least I won't have to try to talk to him during dinner-but who will I be forced to make conversation with?

All my worrying comes to naught when Mrs. Craft, taking one glance at the barely-disguised fear on my face, stops Mr. Duncan from taking his place cat-a-corner on my right. "Thank you, I'll be taking that place," she says with an imperious air. Mr. Duncan doesn't complain - Mrs. Craft's seat provides him with a much better view of Professor Potsdam's chest across the table. Professor Potsdam is laughing loudly with the bald, round gentleman who'd teased Professor Grabiner and me the night before, and as I watch, Mr. Duncan starts to compete for her attention.

"Thanks," I hiss to Mrs. Craft as she takes her seat. She gives me a wink, and we begin the meal.

It's easier to talk with Mrs. Craft than it had been with Lord Montague the night before; she actually listens to what I have to say rather than talking over my monosyllabic responses. She even gives me cues as to when to turn and say a few polite words to the gentleman on my left - a small grey man with a trim goatee whose dinner conversation is as boring as any I've ever encountered. Mrs. Craft keeps me smiling even as the effects of the champagne I'd had wear off, leaving me with a low-grade headache.

The dinner tonight is, fortunately, not so formal or fancy as last night's. The gentlemen are in suits rather than tux -  _dinner jackets, dinner jackets_ \- and there aren't as many courses of rich food. Still, I find myself looking forward to leaving the table. Even a so-called simple dinner in this house is such a production that I wonder whether I'll ever be hungry again.

"It is too bad about Lord Montague being absent, he does so love to preside over these little  _soirees_ ," says Mrs. Craft with a glance at the head of the table where Professor Grabiner is sitting. "But then, I suppose he needs his rest for tomorrow."

"Why, what's tomorrow?" I ask around a mouthful of miniature beef Wellington. Mrs. Craft gives me a withering look until I swallow and say "excuse me."

"Didn't he tell you? Ah - well, no, I suppose he didn't," Mrs. Craft starts. "The third night of his gatherings is always reserved for the illusion he prepares for us each year."

"Wasn't it the doves?" I ask, wondering how Lord Montague could possibly top that feat while still maintaining the fiction that he was merely an illusionist rather than a real wizard.

"Child's play for a magician of his caliber," replies Mrs. Craft. "No, the third night is reserved for something truly spectacular. Last year he made a coffee table sprout with an entire forest of crystalline plants and flowers... and the year before that, he caused a lunar eclipse that was only visible within a mile radius. We drove out and checked," she says, with a wistful look in her eyes.

"So what's this year?" I ask.

"Oh, it's always a very great secret. I don't suppose your husband...?" she starts, with a rather avaricious look, then stops. "No, he wouldn't tell him, would he?"

I think it's safe to assume that if Lord Montague even hinted to his son that he was going to present a grand illusion to the guests, Professor Grabiner would still be throwing a fit. "No chance," I confirm, and finish my beef Wellington.

Mrs. Craft spends the rest of dinner going into detail about Lord Montague's past illusions, not stopping when we finish and move back to the portrait room. A few of the other guests chime in from time to time, reminding Mrs. Craft of this or that detail. Once we're seated on a sofa, we've gathered a crowd around us, all talking excitedly about the anticipated post-dinner illusion that will take place tomorrow night. I cast anxious glances at Professor Grabiner, but he's chatting with a smaller group of guests. He's maneuvered himself to the opposite end of the room, just as Lord Montague had yesterday. The thought that Professor Grabiner is avoiding me makes me feel despondent again, though I suppose it's better than having him learn about his father's plans.

Professor Grabiner stays calm throughout the post-dinner conversation, so I assume that whatever he's discussing, it's not his father's traditional display of magic. I only half-listen to the remainder of the anecdotes that my group tells me. All of their theories on how Lord Montague could possibly perform such illusions get irritating after the first few minutes. For all the sophisticated postulations they make, all their chatter makes me want to shake them by the shoulders and tell them to just accept that it isn't trickery - it's magic, real magic. But of course, I stay silent, save for a remark or two to Mrs. Craft.

When everyone gets up to go to bed, I'm eager to follow along. The low-grade headache that started at dinner has increased in intensity, until all I want to do is lie down in a quiet, dark room - and never drink champagne ever again. I walk with Mrs. Craft up the stairs, trailing behind most of the other guests.

"It's really tiresome how they fetishize Lord Montague," sighs Mrs. Craft. Her indifference is almost convincing, but I'd seen the greed in her eyes when she'd first mentioned Lord Montague's talents.

"So why are you here then, if you're so different?" I ask.

Just like this morning, my rudeness seems only to encourage Mrs. Craft. She chuckles and says "I didn't say I was any different; just that it was tiresome." She sighs again. "It's the last year, you know. Our last chance to find out how he does it. I suppose we're all on tenterhooks. He's promised to reveal his secrets one of these days, and it seems it's now or never."

"He's... promised?" I venture. This is worse than I thought. If Lord Montague has really promised to reveal the magical world to this society - now, when he has nothing left to lose - what will that do to the magical community? Will the authorities, whoever they are, have to go after each and every one of the guests to perform a memory spell to wipe the event from their minds? Or - and this sends a chill right through me - will they go after Professor Grabiner as the next of kin to punish him for his father's transgressions?

Mrs. Craft sees the worried look on my face, and suddenly gives me a tight hug. "It's going to be all right, dear, I told you," she says. "We'll read your cards tomorrow and you'll see; it'll be just fine."

"Thanks," I say, as she lets go, says good night, and slips into her bedroom. It's kind of her to reassure me - she's been nothing but kind of me all day. I'm actually looking forward to getting my cards read, even if I don't much believe in fortune telling. I cross the hall and start ascending the staircase that leads to my bedroom.

"Had a nice night, then?" says a voice next to me as I enter the third floor hall-startling me so much that I barely keep from shrieking.

"You scared me," I say to Professor Grabiner as I try to catch my breath. "So are you, like, lurking outside my room now?

He makes a face. "That's a deplorable habit-"

"I know, you're not 'like' anything, I got the lecture from Professor Potsdam this afternoon," I say.

He shrugs. "Just wanted to see if you were all right. You looked... ah." He seems unwilling to continue.

"So I didn't fool anyone at dinner," I conclude.

"Just a little subdued. Mrs. Craft seemed to be in high spirits."

I grin in spite of myself. "I want to be exactly like her when I grow up."

"A widow?" He raises his eyebrows. "Should I be watching my tea for poison after all?"

I hadn't known Mrs. Craft was a widow. I guess her marriage ended in death instead of divorce. And suddenly I don't much feel like laughing at Professor Grabiner's joke. "What about you?" I ask in an attempt to change the subject. "You weren't actually enjoying yourself, were you?"

He rolls his eyes. "I thought you wanted me to - ah - help?" The contempt in his voice is much more familiar than his earlier display of courtesy, and I find myself relaxing.

"You did great," I admit. "Very gracious. If I hadn't known any better I'd've thought you were the one who invited them all in the first place."

He smirks. "What a compliment. I just wish it hadn't been necessary."

"Well maybe after tomorrow it'll be time for them to go," I suggest. I don't know whether Lord Montague's grand illusion is considered the end of the gathering or not, but it would make sense for people to start trickling out after the main attraction.

"What's tomorrow?" Professor Grabiner asks, and I remember that he doesn't know about Lord Montague's upcoming display of magic. For a moment, I panic.

"Oh - nothing much, Mrs. Craft just said that things start to wind down a bit after the third night," I lie. I can't risk telling him when I have no idea how he'll react. I wouldn't put it past him to storm off to confront his poor father, who needs to rest. It's late, after all.

My lie seems to have cheered Professor Grabiner up, however. "I've had about as much of this hosting that I can take - if those cretins clear out after tomorrow, perhaps I'll have a chance to get some real work done."

"Any word on the new estate plan?"

"Not yet. We'll see how it goes over tomorrow, I think."

"Tomorrow?"

"These things take time," he says with a small smile.

Even after the argument today, and after what had to have been a trying evening, he's still being kind to me - in the weird, sarcastic way he has - and that just makes me feel worse. I've basically been lying to him all day. Even so, I remind myself, there's no use in admitting everything to him now; it'll just set him off. So I settle for the next best thing.

"I'm - uh - sorry. About today. I shouldn't have snapped at you like that."

He shrugs again. "As it so happens, you were right. If I really am here to help my father I suppose I can't restrict myself to the legal side while ignoring the social."

"Despite your obvious legal expertise."

"Yes and lack of social expertise."

"You seem to do all right for yourself."

"When I have to."

I give a short huff of laughter then, not daring to laugh out loud in the night corridor. "Oh God, it was awful, wasn't it? I'm  _really_  sorry." I cover my mouth with both hands and shake with more silent laughter. It's all ludicrous - the fact that I'd tried to bully Professor Grabiner into entertaining a load of faux-magical dilettantes, and the fact that it had actually  _worked_. "Did that bald guy try teasing you again?"

"Mr. Musgrove?"

"I can't remember his name-the one who nudged you yesterday?"

"That's Mr. Musgrove - and no, he seemed to be on best behavior," says Professor Grabiner with a sardonic emphasis on the final phrase. "Though now I think about it, he mentioned something about tomorrow as well..." He trails off, and for a moment I feel a twinge of fear, but then his eyes focus again. "I wasn't paying attention, to be honest."

Relief surges through my system, though it's tinged with a hint of the sort of dread you feel on a Sunday evening when you haven't done your homework for Monday morning. He'll find out sooner or later, but I hope it doesn't have to be me who breaks the news.

"Well, thanks for coming up to check on me," I say. "It's nice of you. I really am sor-"

"Will you  _please_  stop apologizing?" he says. "It isn't particularly thrilling to be proven wrong, but in a year or two I'll have gotten over it."

"Right," I say, "sor-" then I cut myself off with one hand over my mouth and smile. "Okay."

"Okay," he echoes, over-enunciating the word. "Good night, then." And he turns to go.

"Oh - ah-" I start, no idea what to say, only aware that I'm not ready for him to go just yet. My headache has mysteriously vanished, and the thought of going back into my huge Impossible Room, alone and disappointed - again - is suddenly unbearable.

"Mmm?"

"Uh - I'm just not that tired yet. Do you want to come in?"

He frowns. "I don't think-"

"No-" I interrupt. "Not to - I mean, just - I mean-"

He puts his hands up in a supplicating gesture. "That wouldn't be-"

"But I-" I blurt.

He shakes his head. "Look-"

But I don't want to hear his explanation, so I do the only thing I can think of to shut him up, which is take two steps forward, stand on my toes, take his face in both hands and kiss him.

It's incredibly awkward. I still haven't gotten the hang of kissing, so I knock my teeth into his before repositioning myself and trying again. The flush of panic and exhilaration I feel upon acting crystallizes into terror that I've completely overstepped myself. His hands close around my shoulders, and he pushes me against the hallway wall, away from him. My arms fall to my sides, and we look at each other.

_It's the dungeons for me after all_ , I think - only now it's his hands, not a spell, pinning me to the wall.

"I'm sor-" I start, but then he steps forward and stops me by covering my mouth with his.

It's not like the first time he'd kissed me at the end of term, the brief kiss that felt more like a greeting than an expression of physical affection. And it's not like the pass he'd made on Monday night, which felt like too much, too fast. He kisses me with only the faintest pressure, just barely brushing my lower lip with his tongue. But his fingers dig into my shoulders, giving me the courage to press myself forward, deepening the kiss. And, as the terror burns away to leave only the exhilaration of the moment behind, I think that maybe I've figured out what I wanted after all.

And that's when I hear someone next to me cough.


	15. Chapter 15

In an instant, Professor Grabiner and I wrench away from each other, he stepping back so fast he almost stumbles, and me sliding along the wall to a corner; both of us twisting in the direction of the cough.

It's Lord Montague, looking casually elegant in a purple jacquard dressing gown, with his blond shadow, Mr. Lewis, ascending the staircase just behind him.

"We-ell," Lord Montague says, drawing the syllable out. "Your room is just behind you, hadn't you noticed?"

My face feels blazing, and I can barely bring myself to look at Lord Montague's feet.

"Then again," he continues, "I'm glad I found you both out here; I'd so hate to interrupt."

At this, I risk a glance at Lord Montague's face. The expression there seems to indicate that despite his statement, he certainly would have interrupted whatever might have been going on behind a closed door, if only out of spite. This shocks me - what happened to the kindness he showed me this afternoon, when he treated me as a confidante? His eyes flick to me, and I look away, hardly able to breathe. Professor Grabiner opens his mouth as if to say something, then shuts it again, pressing his lips together so tightly they practically disappear. I look back down at the carpet at my feet.

"I just received a very interesting telephone call, Hieronymous," says Lord Montague, "and I simply couldn't wait to discuss it with you. Shall we go down to the study? I don't want to keep poor Mrs. Grabiner up for much longer." His voice drips with false courtesy, and I feel dread creeping through my extremities.

I look up at Professor Grabiner again, but he's avoiding my eyes. Lord Montague steps towards me and tweaks my chin, as he had done at last night's dinner. "Don't worry my dear, I'll bring him back in one piece. Good night to you." He turns and begins to descend the staircase, followed by Mr. Lewis. Professor Grabiner is still for a long moment after they've gone, and I wait for him to look at me, to say something, even just to wish me good night. But he's silent, and soon follows after them without so much as a glance back. I'm left feeling even more abandoned than I would have if I had just let him say good night five minutes ago.

There's nothing for me to do but go to bed, so I do, locking the door even though I know that wouldn't keep a magician like Lord Montague out for even a minute. As I'm getting ready, and as I lie in the middle of the huge bed by myself, I keep going over and over the whole terrible scenario. My awkward stuttering, the kiss, and the unwanted interruption. The whole scene gets worse and worse every time I think through it, and I cringe at every remembered moment.

I lie awake, unable to stop the cycle playing out in my head, and wishing Professor Grabiner would come up, knock on my door, lie down next to me and tell me it was all a misunderstanding; that everything is going to be all right. But my wishing it doesn't make it any more likely to happen, and just drives me deeper into despair.

And amid all this, I find myself wondering what telephone call would be so important that it would come in the middle of the night, prompting Lord Montague to seek out his son immediately - particularly when he was so ill today that he couldn't even be with his guests at dinner. And - funny, when he interrupted us in the hallway, he hadn't even looked ill.

By the time my windows turn grey with morning light, I feel as though I haven't slept in days, and I dread what awaits me when it's time to get up, go downstairs and face the day with the inhabitants of this strange house. But as it turns out, I don't even have to leave the room for the morning to force itself upon me.

"Good morning!" sings Professor Potsdam as she bursts into the room. I might as well have left the door unlocked. I don't bother to wish her a good morning; I just plop one of my pillows over my head, and hope that she'll go away.

It doesn't work. "Come on, wake up gosling, it's a perfectly lovely day!"

I peer out from under my pillow at the window and see that she's lying. The light that should be streaming through the windows is still grey and diffused - it's raining.

"Well, not  _perfectly_  lovely," Professor Potsdam admits, "but I always find the dawn of a new day so cheering, don't you?"

"Not especially," I mutter.

Professor Potsdam clicks her tongue at me. "I'm beginning to think Hieronymous is getting to be a bad influence. Up you get!"

I consider telling her to leave me alone, but decide that even if I'm dreading the start of the day, I can't stand to stay in bed for another minute. I get up.

Potsdam gives me a critical once-over. "A little concealer under the eyes today, I think," she says, producing a tube of makeup in one hand, seemingly out of nowhere, and giving it to me. "And you can borrow this!" She conjures a round powder box in her other hand - it's the sparkly powder she'd used on the day of my wedding. "It always cheers me up!"

I must look terrible if Professor Potsdam is giving me her best makeup, but she doesn't ask why I look as though I've been up all night crying. She does her usual bustling about the room, making a production of delivering my new outfit for the day, which I barely glance at before retreating into the bathroom. She takes the hint and leaves me to take my shower and get dressed. I do use the concealer - my eyes have sprouted deep purple circles under them after my sleepless night - but leave the powder alone. I don't much feel like sparkling today.

Once I'm dry and dressed in the skirt, blouse and cardigan Professor Potsdam left me (this time in dove grey and ivory, to match the day, I suppose), she pops back into the room to walk downstairs to breakfast.

"No excursions today?" I ask.

"Not today, leveret," she replies. "Everyone seems to want to stay close to the house. I suppose I can't blame them, weather and all."

I can think of another explanation - no one wants to be out of the house on the day of Lord Montague's illusion, just in case he decides to start early. This thought gives me an uncomfortable feeling-should I tell Professor Potsdam about Lord Montague's plan? I consider telling her for a moment before deciding on keeping my silence for now. Professor Potsdam had told me yesterday that she wouldn't interfere with what Lord Montague does in his own house. And anyway, her immediate rapport with some of the guests means she hasn't been avoiding them as Professor Grabiner has, and she's probably heard about the illusion by now. If she does decide to do something about it, I'd rather not be involved.

We cross the front hall into the dining room, where, unlike yesterday, a good number of the guests have congregated to eat and chat. The group seems subdued, which I find strange after the buoyant mood that pervaded dinner last night, and in a moment I see - or rather hear - why. The sound of a raised voice permeates the dining room from somewhere in the next hall. At first, it sounds like someone ranting at a high volume, though it's difficult to make out what he's saying. But I realize, as I survey the uncomfortable expressions on the faces of the guests, that it's actually two voices shouting - voices so alike, they sound like one. And any hope I had that the day might actually go well disappears.

Professor Potsdam ignores the distant argument to chirp a cheerful "good morning!" to the nearest guest, and start to dish herself some eggs from a covered dish. I hesitate on the threshold for a moment, wondering whether I should join the guests in their uneasy silence over breakfast or to-well, what, exactly?

Professor Potsdam looks over her shoulder at me. "Eliza," she says, and several of the guests turn to look at where I'm standing. "Come and get some breakfast, dear," Professor Potsdam continues, and there's a hint of steel in her voice.

I take a step into the room, but as I do, I see Dame Sutworth - seated at the near end of the table - wince at a particularly loud exchange in the distant argument. I whirl around and take off at a jog through the hall. I take a wrong turn or two, but I'm able to orient myself by the volume of the argument still going on until I find myself before the large, intricately carved door to Lord Montague's study. I steel myself and knock on the door. Nothing happens, but the voices continue-still at high volume, but muffled enough that I still can't make out the words they're saying. I knock again, harder, bruising my knuckles against the carved wood. Still nothing. I raise my hand to knock a third time, but before I can, the door's opened a crack, revealing a narrow sliver of Mr. Lewis's face, along with an exponential increase in the volume of the argument going on inside the room.

"- _not yours to do whatever you please with; believe it or not I'm not in the grave yet, as much as I'm sure you'd like to usher me along_ -"

Mr. Lewis's face is stark white, and he doesn't seem to know what to do with my arrival at the door. He looks back into the room, then at me, then into the room again. I raise my eyebrows at him, but he still doesn't let me in, so I push the door further open and squeeze myself through.

"- _authorized me to act as I saw fit only to question my judgment? If you want me to leave immediately, I'm perfectly happy to_ -"

When I'm inside the study with the door shut behind me by Mr. Lewis, the volume of the argument is nearly deafening. I'd noticed Professor Grabiner's resonant voice the first time he'd ever spoken to me, but I'd only heard it employed in full force once, and then only briefly. Listening to father and son, I have to marvel at the sheer lung power behind each of their voices - they could have a career in opera.

"- _completely disregarded my wishes for your own personal agenda, appropriating your own family's legacy for selfish_ -"

"Prof - Hieronymous-" I start, but it's no good-their eyes are locked on each other, and neither notices me.

" _Did it ever occur to you that I DON'T WANT ANY OF IT?_ " Professor Grabiner is fairly screaming at this point, the tendons in his neck standing out.

I see Lord Montague take in a breath to try to outmatch him in volume, and I decide this entire argument has gone long enough. I take my own breath and yell at the top of my lungs. " _HEY!_ "

This finally gets their attention, and both Grabiners turn to face me, looking as though I had just materialized out of one of the walls.

"Uh - gentlemen," I say, slowly, trying to think of what to say next. "I just wanted to let you know that your voices are - ah - carrying, and that for the comfort of your guests-" with this, I glare at Lord Montague- "you might want to so-" I stop myself before I say "soundproof the room," remembering that Mr. Lewis is here, and not knowing if he's magic. "I mean - keep your voices down."

Lord Montague's face smooths into a genial smile. "Oh my dear!" he says. "How thoughtless of me; thank you for reminding me." He takes my hands in his and squeezes them.

It's my turn to be shocked - Lord Montague calmed down so fast from his fury, it's hard for me to believe I'm even looking at the same person who was shouting a moment ago. Professor Grabiner isn't recovering quite so easily. He sputters something incomprehensible, but Lord Montague gives him an airy wave.

"Now now, Hieronymous, your wife is absolutely right. I'm neglecting my guests. We'll continue our discussion later -  _after_ you and Mr. Hoffman come up with a new estate plan." And with that, he breezes out of the room, Mr. Lewis close at his heels.

I stare at the closed door for a long moment before turning back to Professor Grabiner. "What the hell was that?" I say.

He doesn't answer, but crosses to the large desk at the center of the room, slumps into the chair behind it, and rests his head in his hands.

"Professor-" I start, but stop, unsure how to finish.

"That," says Professor Grabiner, "was my father in his element." He drags the palms of his hands over his eyes, then looks up at me. "Welcome to the family."

Now that the color in his face is draining away, I can see that he looks even worse than I do this morning. His skin has taken on a sallow tinge, and his eyes are bloodshot. I consider offering him Professor Potsdam's concealer and sparkly powder, but decide he's probably not in the mood for a joke right now.

"You haven't been up all night arguing with him, have you?"

He shakes his head. "I let him rant at me for a while last night, and decided to try to talk some sense into him this morning." He grimaces. "As you can see, I was about as successful as I've ever been at reasoning with him."

"But what happened?"

He sighs, and considers me for a moment. "Mr. Hoffman happened - the solicitor."

"He came back and mucked your estate plan up?" I ask.

"Entirely," Professor Grabiner confirms.

"How so?"

He narrows his eyes at me. "It's inheritance law, do you really-"

"Try me," I counter. "Uh... the simple version, please."

"Very well." He tents his fingers in front of him on the desk, and his voice makes the subtle transfer into lecture mode. "In England, when an individual that owns an estate above a certain amount dies and their property passes to their next of kin or heir, the government exercises a sizable tax upon most of the value of the property. Needless to say, my father objects to having nearly half of his estate 'seized by the government,' as he puts it. There are certain ways to get around the tax that are legal, but they require some advanced planning - and unfortunately we don't have the time for that at this stage."

I'm already a little confused, but just nod.

"At any rate, I decided that if my father seriously objected to the estate being taxed, I might as well do something useful with the money instead, so I proposed setting up a charitable trust."

"A... what?

He sighs again, exasperated. "If you give a portion of the estate to a charitable cause, that portion is ineligible for taxation."

"So you're giving part of the estate to charity?"

"That was the plan."

I squint at him. "You were trying to do something nice? For other people?"

"Yes, well, try not to let it get out, I have a certain reputation to maintain."

I smile. "So what kind of charity?"

"I thought I might set up a trust to establish a magical school in Newcastle," he says. "There used to be one until the mid-nineteenth century - most of my family was educated there until it was shuttered. I thought my father might like to have a school named after him."

"No you didn't," I say.

He smirks. "No, I didn't. But I don't see why he cares; it's either give the money up in taxes or give it to charity, and by the time it happens he'll be dead anyway."

I'm a bit taken aback by how callous that sounds. Even if he's angry with his father, his plans about what to do with the money when Lord Montague dies... well, they sound like I had sounded to myself when I was daydreaming yesterday afternoon. "Don't you think he ought to have a say?"

His smirk disappears. "Why should he?"

"Well.. what about family?" I ask, thinking about my conversation with Lord Montague yesterday afternoon. "I mean, keeping the estate in the family? Isn't that kind of the point? I mean-" I see his expression darken, and I start to flounder. "I'm sure he just wants the estate to stay in the family instead of going to some school..."

"How interesting that you'd parrot my father's argument," says Professor Grabiner with an edge to his voice. "I suppose you're equally blind to the fact that there is no alternative?"

"What about that spell, that white magic spell your family does?" I suggest. "The one that makes people get bored and forget about things? The one your father puts on his position in Parliament so no one knows... he..." I trail off. I'm not quite able to categorize the look coming over Professor Grabiner's face, but I know enough to be able to tell it's nothing good.

"If that's what he wants, he can bloody well do it himself - I can play host and wrangle solicitors all he likes but I am  _not_  here to engage in tax fraud." His hands resting on the desk are clenched, knuckles white.

"I... I was just..." I start, trying to think of some way to calm him down. "I just don't know that much about it." He glares at me, and I step back, dismayed. It's only been twelve hours since he'd kissed me, and now he looks as though he'd cheerfully see me locked in a dungeon. "Look," I say, "maybe you should take a break and get some rest, and-"

"Maybe," he interrupts, "you should leave me alone and let me get something accomplished for once."

I start, then feel a wave of anger surge over the fear I'd felt a second ago. I set my jaw. "Fine," I snap. "I mean, certainly.  _Sir_." I turn my heels and walk out of the study.

"Eliza-" I hear him say behind me, but I ignore him, shutting the door behind me as I stalk into the hall. If it's more nastiness, I don't want to hear it, and if it's an apology, well, I'm tired of his pattern of constantly losing his temper and chasing me down to apologize afterwards. And if this is what it means to be married to Hieronymous Grabiner, maybe I'm sick of being married.

I make my way back to the dining room where I find Lord Montague flitting amongst his guests, chatting, laughing, and putting everyone at ease. Mrs. Craft waves to me from one end of the table. I don't see Professor Potsdam anywhere.

I ignore the odd, hollow feeling in my chest and fetch a plate from the sideboard to serve myself breakfast.


	16. Chapter 16

The day drags. The oppressive cover of grey cloud hangs over the countryside like a fire retardant blanket, preventing any hint of sun from making its way to the house. The guests, hindered from making any excursions due to the weather, languish on various sofas and chairs. Everyone seems listlessly anxious, just marking time until the long-awaited illusion in the evening. Lord Montague vanishes after breakfast, Professor Grabiner remains (I assume) holed up in his father's study, and Professor Potsdam is nowhere to be found.

I occupy myself with my new book, but find myself spacing out, unable to concentrate, and having to flip back pages to get back to the story. The short book takes me hours to finish, but the end leaves me just as hollow as I felt at breakfast - another story that ends with not only death, but a deluded woman who was blind to the horrors perpetrated by her own fiance. It's all I can do to keep from throwing the book against the wall

It's lunch by the time I finish, and I go into the dining room more out of a sense of obligation than hunger. There's still no sign of Lord Montague, Professor Grabiner or Professor Potsdam, so I take it on myself to try to speak to everyone as they serve themselves lunch. Although I don't have to say much besides commiserating over the terrible weather, I find the forced courtesy exhausting, and suddenly feel guilty about leaving Professor Grabiner to handle everyone at dinner last night.

Most of the guests decide to take post-lunch naps, news of which I greet with a bit more enthusiasm than politeness requires. I consider following suit-my sleepless night having taken its toll - but before I make up my mind, Mrs. Craft catches my eye and shakes a palm-sized wooden box at me, jerking her head to tell me to follow her into another room. I guess it's time for my card reading, then.

I follow Mrs. Craft into the fussy little sitting room with the paintings of flowers that we had explored yesterday. The windows face east, so I assume it's some sort of morning room. It'll be an unpopular choice for sitting after lunch, even for those who don't decide to take naps.

Mrs. Craft pulls a spindly chair up to a small coffee table, and I do the same. She takes a deck of cards out of the wooden box and starts to shuffle them, riffling them together, then bridging them so that they fall together with a satisfying snap. The cards are a bit bigger than a normal deck, but Mrs. Craft has large hands and long fingers, and handles them adroitly. I look at them with some curiosity. I've seen tarot cards in movies, and some of my friends from before I went to Iris used to like to go to see psychics who did tarot or palm readings for them, but I never went along. I didn't have much patience with psychics when I knew that real magic existed. I wonder, suddenly, whether I'm just as much of a snob as Professor Grabiner is - and the thought isn't very heartening.

"I wish you wouldn't glower like that," says Mrs. Craft, giving the cards another snap. "You've been moping around all morning. It's unbecoming, especially in one so young. Had a row with your husband, then?"

"Not exactly," I say. "He's just in a bad mood. He'll come around eventually, he always does. I just have to figure out whether I want to keep waiting for him."

I hadn't meant to be quite so candid, but Mrs. Craft just nods sympathetically. "Husbands can be tricky," she says. "And as much as the powers that be deplore the state of marriage nowadays, I think there's something to be said for being able to cut one's losses if it comes to that."

"You didn't, though," I say, remembering that Professor Grabiner had said she was a widow.

If she's offended by the personal comment, she doesn't show it. "Times were rather different then," she says. "Sometimes I'm baffled at just how different, actually. I didn't have quite so many opportunities as you do, back when I was first married. Cut the cards into three piles, now, and then put them back together in any order you'd like. While you do that, think of a question you'd like answered. It can be specific or general, and you don't have to tell me, if you don't want to."

I cut the cards as she instructs, but I can't think of a question - or rather, I can think of too many. All the questions that have swirled in my head since I came to England flick past me, but none of them seem to be questions that can be answered by a pack of cards. The only coherent thought I manage to put together as I stack the cards back up is  _what the hell am I supposed to do now?_  I'm way too embarrassed to say that out loud, so I hand Mrs. Craft her cards in silence.

"Right then," she says with brisk efficiency. "The important part of reading cards is that each card may mean different things to different people, depending on their outlook, or even the question they want answered at that particular moment. So if my interpretation seems odd, or wrong, we can discuss what you think it might mean instead, and see if we can't work out a reasonable answer for you."

This sounds like an awfully haphazard way to divine someone's fortune, but I decide that Mrs. Craft probably knows more about what she's doing than I do, so I don't say anything.

"First card," she begins, "might represent you, your current environment, or the heart of the issue you're concerned with." She turns a card over, and I peer at it.

"Is that supposed to be me?" I ask.

"Do you think it is?" she asks, eagerly.

"Well..." I start. "It's not very flattering, is it?"

"The Fool doesn't mean you're stupid," she says, reassuring. It represents innocence, and the start of a new journey."

"He's walking off a cliff!"

"It's symbolic - someone with a lot to learn!"

My shoulders sag. "Yeah, I guess it's me."

"Thought so!" she says. Her enthusiasm rivals Professor Potsdam's. "Second card, a changing or opposing factor, something that is seriously impacting your life right now. Together, the first and second cards are the main dynamic regarding the issue about which you're concerned." She flips the card on top of the first, then makes a face. "Hmph. I thought this one would come up."

"Knight of swords?" I ask, reading the title at the bottom of the card, which shows a charging knight on horseback.

"Usually represents a youngish man with dark hair, an intellectual... but domineering, sarcastic, tactless, and rather prone to extremes."

It's pretty clear who this card represents. "Oh," I say, half dismayed and half fascinated - maybe Mrs. Craft can read the future in cards after all.

"Third card," she continues merrily, "is the cause of the problem, or a kind of unconscious influence... " She lays the card down. "Justice, which symbolizes balance, accountability, or-"

"Or trying to make the right decision?" I ask.

"You're quite good at this," she responds with a small smile.

"What's next?" Now I'm engrossed.

"Fourth card is a receding influence from the past, but something that your current emotional state rests upon, something that still affects you in your current situation." She flips the card. "Ten of cups."

"That looks nice," I say, surveying the people depicted on the card under an arch made of goblets. "Is it a family?"

"A happy family, a peaceful family," Mrs. Craft replies. "I assume you had a happy childhood - no domestic tension, nothing to worry you?"

"Ye-es," I say warily, "but lately it's been a little tough because - um-" I stop myself before admitting I've been distanced from my parents because I'm at boarding school to study magic. "All the new things in my life have sort of taken up my time."

She nods. "Yes, that's why it's a receding influence, something you can't count on as part of your life any more. But that's a natural part of growing up, you know," she continues. "You can't count on your family to take care of you forever. You should know that as a married woman."

"Right," I say. "Let's do the next one." I don't want to linger on my rapidly diminishing happy family life, but she's right - it is a thing of the past.

"Fifth card - something that you are conscious of, something that motivates your actions, like a goal or aspiration." She flips the card. "Six of wands, that symbolizes victory or success."

The man on horseback depicted on the card does look as though he's in a victory parade. "And that's something that's going to happen in the future?"

"It's something you'd like to happen in the future," she corrects, "but not something guaranteed. Now, the sixth card is something that is approaching in the future - the opposite of the fourth card, which depicted an influence from the past." She flips. "Two of cups - that's interesting," she says.

I look at the picture of a man and a woman, extending cups to each other. "Why?"

"Well, it's the minor arcana equivalent to The Lovers - that's a major arcana card symbolizing a deep relationship based on love. The two of cups is more... tentative, less forceful, something that's developing rather than something that's already there. It can also symbolize the end of a division, a truce between two people."

"A truce..." I say, considering. That would at least be something.

"You see? I told you there wasn't anything to worry about," she says with a smile.

"So that's the reading?" I ask.

"There's still four more cards to go," she says, "including the outcome."

"All right, seventh card?"

"Seventh card is you as you see yourself, your potential, or the unique talents that you bring to the situation."

She turns the card, and I start, nearly knocking my chair backwards before I manage to catch it. "The magician?"

"Ah yes, it symbolizes the ability to take action and using the resources you have at your disposal to affect change."

I unclench, hoping she didn't register my unusual reaction to the card. Though I suppose it could mean using my magical ability to get the outcome that I want - whatever victory to which I'm apparently aspiring.

"Eighth card - outside influences, or how others may see you. She flips the card and I'm horrified.

"What is  _that_?" I say aghast. The card shows a woman tied up and blindfolded in a fence of swords.

"You tell me," says Mrs. Craft. I screw up my face, looking at the card.

"Well... she looks trapped. And helpless."

"Eight of swords. Maybe someone's underestimating you," suggests Mrs. Craft, with a smirk.

"Maybe," I agree, reluctantly. "Next card, please."

"All right. Ninth card is a guide as to how to proceed, and what you should do to obtain the result you want."

The card features a man on a terrace, staring into the distance, holding a globe and flanked by two staffs.

"Two of wands," says Mrs. Craft. " _Very_  interesting."

I like the look of the card, but I'm not sure what it means. "Why is that?"

"It's a complimentary card to the Magician. While the Magician symbolizes the potential and ability to take action, the two of wands represents the action itself."

I give her a blank look.

"What I'm trying to say is that the two cards together represent the resources to take action-" she taps the Magician card- "and committing that act." She taps two of wands.

"So... I should be successful?" I ask.

"Well, let's find out," she says, and flips the final card. Her expression immediately changes - she scrunches her forehead and purses her lips.

"The Empress?" The card shows a blonde woman reclining on a sofa, looking very relaxed and regal, with a crown and scepter. She looks about the opposite of how I feel at the moment.

"Ye-es... she symbolizes power, particularly that which comes from nature and, ah... fertility. And motherhood."

"From...?" I start, as that last word sinks in.

"Maybe you'll get pregnant!" Mrs. Craft says enthusiastically, and manages to last for about two seconds before the expression on my face sends her howling with laughter.

"That's not funny," I protest, but she just laughs harder, so I just heave a sigh and wait until her cackling fit runs its course. By the time it does, tears are streaming down her cheeks, and I'm glowering.

"I'm not getting pregnant," I say, indignant, as she catches her breath.

"Please don't," she gasps, "you're in high school, for God's sake!"

"You don't have anything to worry about," I mutter, mutinous.

"Thank goodness," she says, and wipes a tear out of a corner of one eye.

"Then what does it mean?" I ask, wanting to get back to the subject at hand.

"I'm not quite sure," she admits. "In the context of this reading particularly, it's a very odd card to come up, especially in the outcome position. It's very representative of maternity, in the literal as well as the symbolic sense - nature, springtime, that kind of thing. If you're absolutely sure-"

"I'm  _absolutely_  sure., I say flatly. Barring immaculate conception, I'm about as far from getting pregnant as a woman can get.

"It might mean... oh, nurturing something, developing something, using the talent you have and the actions you take to create something new." She beams.

She's right - it really doesn't sound so bad, if she puts it that way. I venture a tentative smile.

"Maybe you'll become a teacher!" Mrs. Craft suggests brightly.

"Maybe," I start, considering. Actually, becoming a teacher doesn't sound so bad, and it would be in keeping with Mrs. Craft's suggestion that I nurture something new with my talents - once they're finished being nurtured themselves, that is. "You were a teacher, right? History?" I don't even know how anyone goes about becoming a teacher, much less a teacher of magic. I'd never thought to ask my mother how she decided to be a teacher, or what she had to study in order to become one. What I know of Professor Grabiner's background - going to the topmost magical school in the United States under an assumed name, then suddenly dropping his studies and applying to teach - doesn't really give me a good idea of what people do under more normal circumstances.

"Yes, though I didn't come to it quite so early in life," says Mrs. Craft. "I didn't go to university myself until I was in my forties - and don't you even  _think_  of doing the same thing, I don't care what that husband of yours says." She turns on me with a fierce expression.

"Why didn't you go?" I ask.

"Because I was married, of course," she says with a touch of sarcasm in her voice.

"But that's no reason not to go to university," I start, incredulous.

"My parents certainly thought it was," Mrs. Craft replies, "and the husband they picked out for me quite agreed with them."

"That's horrible," I say, a bit chagrined.

"Yes, and unfortunately at the time a married woman still couldn't control her own income without her husband's permission - not that I had much income to begin with; my parents gave everything to my brother. I was the oldest, but I was married and a woman - so what would I need with my own money?" She rolls her eyes. "The joke was on them in the end - when my husband died, I was able to use his money to go to school anyway. It only took me twenty years." She grins at me, and despite the morbidity of the subject, I find myself grinning back.

"It turned out to be a good thing, too - my brother wasn't ever much for money management, so by the time he died, there wasn't much of my family's money left. He was a dreamer, and far too trusting. I was always the practical one in the family."

"So they knew that, but they disinherited you just because you were a girl?" I ask, incredulous.

She doesn't answer, but her mouth gives an involuntary downward twitch.

"It wasn't just because you were a girl," I say. I had originally meant it to be a question, but as I say it, my voice turns downward, not upward.

"Well I can't say for sure," she says, suddenly testy, "but - oh, it doesn't even make a difference now, but-" She cuts off, suddenly looking more uncertain than I've ever seen her before. It's disconcerting, but I'm too curious to change the subject now.

"Did something happen?" I ask. She gives me a hard look, and for a long moment, I think she might not answer, and instead storm out of the room or even strike me across the face. But none of these things happen, and finally she opens her mouth to speak.

"When I was thirteen I saw - no, felt - no.  _Did_  something very odd," she says. "It was the spring of 1941, the tail end of the Blitz - though at the time, I thought it would last forever. I thought I'd never live through another night without hearing air-raid sirens, or seeing light on the horizon and knowing it was a fire, not the dawn..." Her eyes go a bit vacant as she recalls this, and I feel a sudden shiver, just a tiny intimation of how terrifying it must have been to live through bombings night after night.

"Well," Mrs. Craft says, putting the snap back into her voice, "everything seems like it'll last forever when you're young. At any rate, we all hated staying in bomb shelters - my family, that is - the shelters were so full of terrified people, and terror can be infectious. We much preferred to stay home and practice that very British sort of stubbornness of pretending nothing was wrong when bombs were falling all around us. One night there was a raid, and the explosions sounded so close that I was sure we'd be hit at any moment, but we weren't. When the sun came up, I went into the yard to see if anything had happened to the houses surrounding ours, and that's when I saw it."

"Saw what?"

"The bomb," she says, with a wry smile. "An incendiary bomb that had landed in our yard, but hadn't exploded."

My jaw drops. "It hadn't exploded?" is all I can think of to say.

She shakes her head, smile deepening. "It was just sitting there, this little cylinder in our back garden. But it was live."

"How did you know?"

The smile on her face disappears, and she looks puzzled. "I don't know how I knew, I just  _knew_ , looking at the thing, that it would go off with just the slightest tap. And there was my little brother calling me, "Tabitha, what is it,' and about to run out into the yard."

"So what did you do?" I ask, breathless and for the moment forgetting that both Mrs. Craft and her brother had obviously lived through it.

"Well I certainly didn't think about it much, except that I had to keep Timothy away from it. I ran to the thing and picked it up, very slowly."

I stare at her, too shocked to comment.

"I could feel it practically humming in my hands, as though it really was alive - and Timothy was about to knock into me so I just  _thought_  at the thing and suddenly-" She jerks her hands up. "It was dead."

"Dead?" I echo.

"Timothy slammed into me and I dropped it on the ground, but it didn't go off. And I knew it wouldn't because I'd stopped it somehow. My father was absolutely livid that I'd do something so foolish; he picked the bomb up, put it into a firebucket, and ran it outside to find a bobby to take the thing away. When he got back he screamed at me until he was red in the face, saying it was a good thing the bomb had turned out to be a dud. But it hadn't been, and of course, I screamed that right back at him." She sighs. "My father and I share the same rather stubborn streak, so we both dug our heels in, and refused to budge - even though part of me knew that I was arguing the impossible."

Suddenly, I feel an uncomfortable sensation in my stomach. "And you said this was when you were thirteen?" I ask.

"Yes, and believe it or not, I remember it as clearly as if it were yesterday." Her face brightens with a smile. "It was the closest thing I've ever come to, well..."

"Magic," I finish, the sinking sensation intensifying.

"Yes, and unfortunately my relationship with my parents was never quite the same," she replies. "We didn't talk about the bomb after that day - almost as though they'd forgotten about it, or nearly - but they started looking at me as though I were some sort of freak. I pretended I had forgotten about it myself, but I never did. They were quite pleased to pack me off to a husband at seventeen, never mind that I threw a fit about wanting to go to university. Ever since that day they thought I was batty, so they wound up disinheriting me in favor of Timothy. But-" She cuts off. "Are you all right, Eliza? I told you it was for the best."

But I'm not listening anymore. I'm trying to battle the tears that are stinging my eyes. "I-" I start, "I have to go." I bolt out of my seat and toward the door, nearly knocking over the spindly card-covered table. When I reach the door I look back over my shoulder to see Mrs. Craft staring at me as though I was the one who had gone batty. "Uh - thanks for the card reading," I say before dashing into the hall.

I barely have a clear idea of what I'm doing before I skid to a halt in front of Lord Montague's study door and pound on it.


	17. Chapter 17

There isn't any answer at first, and frustrated, I try the knob - locked.  _Well, a lock won't keep me out_ , I think with a sense of grim satisfaction, and unlock the door with a spell.

Professor Grabiner's walking around the desk towards the door as I enter. "You could wait for two seconds together," he snaps, clearly irritated at my interruption. But I don't pay any attention.

"She's magic!" I shout at him.

He opens his mouth to respond, then shuts it, looking at me as though I've miraculously sprouted another head. He makes a quick gesture with one hand, and the study door shuts behind me. "What?" he asks.

"Mrs. Craft - she's  _magic_ , she just told me!" I say, trying to slow down enough to make my words coherent.

"She's a witch?" He knits his eyebrows.

"Well-" I say, suddenly unsure how to explain. "She's magic, but I think she got memory spelled, she didn't-"

"Make the Choice?" he finishes for me. "If she didn't make the Choice, she's not a witch."

He sounds so smug and condescending that I bristle. "She defused a bomb! With her brain! And her parents - they must have stopped her from making the Choice, and she got memory spelled but it must not have worked right, and then she got packed off to marry some man she didn't even love, and couldn't go to school!"

"And how on earth would that possibly affect me?" he asks with a sneer, and I'm shocked into open-mouthed silence.

He turns back to the desk, saying "now if you'll excuse me-"

"I'm going to tell her about it!" I blurt.

He turns back to me, scowling. "You'll do nothing of the kind."

"She deserves to know! She's been wondering her whole life if magic was real!"

"And do you understand what would happen to you if you did tell her?" His voice has a dangerous edge to it now, and I step back, considering what  _would_  happen. I'd be kicked out of the magical community, all my magic taken away and-what would that mean about the manus? Would it come to claim my soul after all?

"I don't care," I say, but even I can hear the uncertain wobble in my voice. He smirks, and I feel my indignation rise from my chest and into my throat. "It isn't fair!"

Professor Grabiner gives me a withering look. "Eliza, you're acting like a spoiled child."

"And you're acting like a selfish one!" I counter. " _How on earth would that possibly affect me_ -how could you say something so disgusting?" His face goes stony, but I don't stop. "You think she's beneath you just because she would have been wildseed? Just because her family stopped her from becoming a witch? You're not better than anyone else, just because you have money, or just because you have magic! Or just because you think you're  _smarter_  than they are and it's such a  _burden_  just to tolerate them! What happened to Mrs. Craft - that could have been  _me_ , you know? That could have been-" but I bite back my words before I can say  _Violet_. "My - my family," I finish. "My parents - you could have been talking about them, saying 'that' or 'it,' like they weren't even human beings!" The vehemence in my voice returns at the last, but I can already tell that I haven't fooled him - that he knows what I was about to say.

He doesn't get angry, and he doesn't shout at me. He doesn't say a single word, but as I watch, something behind his eyes shuts down. It's worse than it would have been if he had gotten angry, even if he'd threatened to lock me in a dungeon. My stomach twists and I feel shame soak through me.

"I-" I start, then drop my eyes, unable to meet his gaze any longer. "I should never have come here."

"No," he says after an interval. "It was self indulgent."

I start and hiss in my breath as though he'd slapped me - and in a way, he has. It's a terrible thing to say, but even worse, I know he's right. Despite all the lies I'd told myself about why I've come here, that's exactly what I've been - self indulgent. I didn't come here to help Professor Grabiner figure anything out about his father or even to distract Lord Montague from his son's actions. I'm here because I couldn't stand to be away from my much-too-old husband because of my little schoolgirl crush. And worse than that, I've shown Professor Grabiner that I'm willing to pull punches for him, but he's shown that he isn't willing to do the same for me.

There's nothing else to do, so I just say "yes," and try not to cry.

His mouth twists, and then he looks away. "I'll have Mr. Lewis put you on the first flight from Newcastle, will that suit?"

"Yes," I say to the floor. I won't cry. I won't cry. I won't.

"Very well. Now if-"

"No - I'll get out of your way-" I say and slam myself out of the room before I can burst into tears. But I can't cry, not out here in the main hall where any of the guests can walk by and see me, and I can't go back to the fussy sitting room where I'd left Mrs. Craft-she's probably furious with me. I run down the hall and up the main staircase half blinded and with one hand over my mouth holding in the sobs I'm afraid will erupt at any moment.

I race down the unoccupied hall of second floor bedrooms. I have to find somewhere to hide, somewhere to cry where I won't be caught, because I can't stand to have anyone see me in this state. Definitely not my bedroom, considering how often Professor Potsdam barges in on me, unannounced. I'm past the music room before I remember that I could probably tuck myself away into one of the spare bedrooms - but then, they might get dusted or aired by the staff. I round a corner, and find myself facing the strange carved red-tinged door that I'd found with Mrs. Craft yesterday afternoon. I'd been frightened of its sinister aspect then, but I'm beyond fear now. Now it seems like the perfect sanctuary, unassailable by anyone. I aim a spell at the door and it unlocks and swings open. I push myself in, then back myself against it, shutting the house out and myself in.

Once I'm safely behind the huge red door, I can't hold myself in any longer. I sink to the floor and start to cry in huge gulping sobs, the way a toddler cries when it's having a tantrum. Some distant part of me knows this, and the shame of it sends me sobbing even harder. I've lost-he doesn't love me, and how could he? I'm just a stupid, silly child who can't control herself. I press my hands against my mouth, hardly able to breathe and feeling like I'm vomiting tears.

"Oh now," says a voice above me. "It can't be that bad."

I gasp, choking on a wad of snot and scrabbling my feet to press myself into the door. Looking up, I see a tall, slim figure half obscured by my tears, holding a floppy white object before my face. It's Lord Montague - just the person I don't want to see.

"Well go on, take it," he says, and I reach one hand out to clutch the handkerchief he's holding out to me. I look down and start dabbing at my streaming eyes and nose, sniffling as I go. When I look back up he's still standing there, smiling down at me. "Come now my dear, what's a handkerchief for?" he asks. Resigned, I blow my nose with a sonorous honk - embarrassing, but I do feel better afterwards.

"Excuse me," I mutter, wiping my eyes with a clean corner of the linen square.

"Perfectly all right," says Lord Montague with a kind smile. He holds out one hand to me, so I take it with the hand that's the least sticky and stand with his assistance. "You've been fighting with Hieronymous, haven't you?"

"I - how-" I start, baffled, and he chuckles.

"Dear, I'm his father - and I've never seen anyone who could upset someone so thoroughly and so quickly as he could."

Despite myself I break into a tentative smile at this.

"Ah, that's what I wanted to see. One smile from you and the world kneels." He pats my cheek in a comforting way. "Now don't tell me you've been here this whole time and haven't even seen my library?"

He steps to my side after saying this, leaving me to clutch the handkerchief to my chest and look up. It's true, I haven't seen one foot of the room since entering, and the sight makes me gawk in wonder.

The room is octagonal in shape with bookshelves lining nearly every part of its eight walls. It has to be at least four stories high - another impossibility, considering that the room would comprise a tower that could be seen from the outside of the house - it must be another magically manipulated space. The ceiling is made entirely of faceted glass with a lattice that looks like a spider's web supporting the panes. A cold, grey light shines through the clouds above and gives the room a subdued glow. A spiral staircase snakes up the walls, ensuring that a browser might have access to any book she wished just by ascending it. From time to time the stair levels into a small alcove which houses a chair or settee, each flanked by a narrow window to ensure that a reader would have some outside light. And the books - they gleam even in the dim, suffused sunlight, bound in leather and gilt, practically giving off a light of their own. It's a majestic, imposing library, and I feel like a small child who's stumbled into something far too grand to comprehend.

"I'm - I'm so sorry to disturb you," I stammer, ashamed that I've been caught crying in such a room.

Lord Montague chuckles again. "Oh my dear, I've been waiting for you to get curious enough to try to force your way in. Another rather special white magic spell, you see - it keeps people who I don't want here out, while drawing those I'd like to see in. All you needed to do was give the door a slight push, and it would have opened for you. I've been dying to show it off."

"Oh," I say, unsure how else to respond. "That's very kind."

"Kindness has nothing to do with it," he says with an enigmatic smile, then takes my elbow and starts leading me up the stairs. "What you see, dear daughter-in-law, is nothing less than the second largest collection of books on the Otherworld in Britannia."

"It's incredible," I breathe, marvelling at the spiralling view before me.

"Yes, it's taken generations to bring it to the marvel you see today," Lord Montague says. "Only Saint Amphibalus' has a larger collection - as it should, it's the best magical college in Britain, and my own  _alma mater_. Ah-have you given a thought to what you'd like to study at university?"

"Oh... I don't-" I start, flummoxed, and then blurt out "history," because it's the first thing I can think of.

"Then  _that's_  where you should go!" crows Lord Montague. "I've always been a little disappointed that Hieronymous never had the inclination to pursue a classical education, but it would be lovely to have another Grabiner at Saint Amphibalus'. There's no better place for studying history - other than our own house." He chuckles, gesturing to the rows of books. "We have books dating back to the fourteenth century - handwritten and illuminated, of course. Terribly beautiful. Look at this one!" He turns to a bookshelf and raises a glass cover that protects a row of volumes from the open air. He chooses a book, eases it out of the case, and opens it to an illustration on the tissue-thin paper.

The picture in the book is indeed terribly beautiful - both beautiful and terrible. In it, a group of red-tinged creatures with long tails and yellow teeth are seizing and dismembering a group of terrified children. Some of the children have already been torn to pieces, and a group of demons are fighting one another for each plump limb, while one - a bit larger and more ferocious looking than the others - seems to be chewing on a dismembered head that looks as though it's still screaming. The picture is hand-drawn, embellished in rich inks, and accented with thin threads of gold leaf for the demons' claws.

"Is that what it's like there?" I ask, a cold horror creeping up my spine.

"Not anymore," says Lord Montague, shutting the book with care and replacing it on its shelf. "Did I scare you, dear? I really must apologize - I'm always stumbling about and doing the wrong thing, you know."

"Oh - no - it's not-" I start, but he puts a hand up to stop me.

"No, no, please don't make excuses for me. I'd intended to apologize to you for last night, actually, and here I go frightening you and having to apologize again!" He sighs. "I'm afraid I was in a foul mood after being woken by that dreadful solicitor at such an hour, and I took it out on you. It's an unpardonable offense, but I must ask you to pardon me."

"It's all right," I say, stomach churning at the memory of last night.

"It isn't really, but I thank you just the same," says Lord Montague. "My ex-wife was always telling me that the most infuriating thing about me was that I had the nastiest temper and would run about doing and saying horrible things, and having to backtrack and apologize to everyone afterwards. She said it was quite exhausting!" He gives a rueful laugh. "But I'm afraid I've never weaned myself from the habit, and I think that Hieronymous has caught it as well. Forgive me. Forgive  _us_."

I don't know what to say to that, so I just give Lord Montague a nervous smile.

"I suppose he'll have to apologize for himself," says Lord Montague with a sigh. "What were you arguing about?"

"Oh - nothing important," I say, not about to betray Mrs. Craft's secret. Instead, I seize on a change of subject. "So what is the Otherworld like? If it's not all demons eating children."

"Oh, those aren't demons, they're goblins," Lord Montague says airily.

"Right, goblins, of course," I say, frowning. "But-"

"The Otherworld, yes," says Lord Montague with a grin. "Well it's funny you should ask me to describe it, because the first adjective that comes to mind is 'indescribable.'" He crinkles his eyes at me, and I laugh. "But I'll do my best. The Otherworld is... rather like a paradise for people. Ah, I mean for  _our_  sort of people, you know. Many of the constraints to using magic that we experience here simply don't exist there; it's very freeing. The concept of space is nearly meaningless - you could think yourself across the length of a continent using only the amount of magical energy it would take to travel one foot in this world. You have to watch out for time, though - if you're not careful in your comings and goings, you may find yourself spending ten minutes in the Otherworld, only to come back to this world ten years after you'd left.

"And it's fascinating to live amongst different species of sentient beings. Until you experience it for yourself, there's really no way to describe just how different they are. Some of them act under a completely different set of rules than we humans do. Some are obsessed with consuming human souls-like the goblins, of course, but there are others - and some are literally incapable of telling or understanding a lie. Some have an incomprehensible craving to enter into agreements or contracts, and once bound, will literally perish before breaking their word. Some are terribly beautiful, some are frightfully ugly, and some look very much like humans."

I'm completely spellbound by Lord Montague's narrative. As he weaves his description of living among the denizens of the Otherworld, I can practically picture a parade of strange, beautiful and horrible creatures before my eyes. It's enough to make me long to visit that mysterious place, despite the frightening story he'd told me yesterday.

Lord Montague is, of course, eating up the undivided attention. "I really do wish Hieronymous would put his past behind him and take you; you'd be quite at home there considering your obvious intelligence and talent."

"It does sound like a fascinating place," I venture. "But I have no idea when I could even go. I mean, how old is old enough, anyway? When are you, like... unappetizing?"

"Children in general or you in particular?" asks Lord Montague, raising one hand and stroking my cheek. "I'd imagine you were rather appetizing at any time."

"Uh..." I start, suddenly uncomfortable.

"In another year or so I think you'll be all right. Though you might find yourself there sooner than you think." His hand continues stroking my cheek, up, down, and back again.

"What?"

"Well you know the stories don't you? Even a wildseed like you knows them. Little girls who fall down the rabbit hole, or get lost in the woods, or run three times around the church widdershins." He smiles a slow, sly smile and then, with the speed of a striking snake, grabs underneath my jaw, thumb and fingers digging into my cheeks.

At first I think it must be a joke, and try to smile against the pressure of his fingers. But he squeezes tighter, holding my face still in his hand. A stab of fear pierces me, and I try to twist my face out of his grip, scrabbling at his wrist with both hands, but the harder I struggle, the tighter he squeezes. I start to panic, trying to back away, trying anything to extract myself, but I only succeed in making small squeaking noises-the sound of a small animal caught in a trap. And all the while I'm thinking  _he's supposed to be ill-how can he be so strong_?

He doesn't drop his smile as I twist in his clutch. His fingers squeeze tighter and tighter, digging into my cheeks, forcing the flesh between my teeth. I wince as I bite through, filling my mouth with hot salty liquid, but through it all he keeps my face still in front of his.

"Childe Rowland," he starts in his gravelly voice, "to the dark tower came. His word was still fie" - and he draws the word out in a whisper - " _fiiiieeee_ ,  _fohhhhh_  and _fummmmm_... I smell the soul..." And here he brings his face next to mine, and breathes deeply, as though smelling my neck and hair - "Of an American."

He must loosen his grip just then, because I'm able to wrench myself free and sprint back down the spiral staircase, running headlong into the door before I'm able to scrabble for the knob, open it, and dash into the hall. I don't stop running until I've shut and locked the door to my Impossible Room and drawn all the curtains around the bed, and then I lie on my side on the coverlet, knees drawn to my chest, panting and gasping in terror.


	18. Chapter 18

It's a long time before I can even bring myself to part the curtains around the bed to look out. My room is silent and awash with pale grey light. It seems far too peaceful, and I'm terrified that someone or something will burst out of the wardrobe or the dressing room and seize me. I have to steel my courage for a few minutes before leaping out of the bed to check underneath - then the wardrobe - then the dressing room. There's no one with me. I'm alone.

I unclench my fists and realize that I'm still gripping Lord Montague's handkerchief in one hand. I hurl it across the room in disgust, and stand with my back to the wall, waiting to see if it might possibly come to life and leap for my throat. It just sits there on the floor, a sad little piece of soiled, crumpled linen. It's a few minutes before I can bring myself to turn my back to it and continue my exploration of the room.

I flip the light in the bathroom and hiss in my breath at the sight of my face in the mirror. Bright blue bruises line my cheeks - four on one side and one on the other, where Lord Montague's thumb and fingers had pressed into my face. The insides of my cheeks are still ragged and coppery-tasting where I'd bitten them, and I run my tongue along the tears, wincing at the pain.

Should I heal the bruises? But if I tried to tell someone, who would believe me if I didn't show them how much Lord Montague had hurt me?  _Should_  I tell someone? Should I tell Professor Grabiner? Even with the horrible scene that had happened between us earlier, should he know?

One more look at my own face in the mirror, blanched but for the blue bruises across each cheek, brings me to my conclusion. "Of course," I murmur. "You've got to say something." I march to my bedroom door, but as soon as I reach out my hand to open it, I freeze. My heart starts pounding in my chest as though it's going to burst straight through my ribs, and I can barely breathe - I feel as though I'm sucking air in through a straw. What if  _he's_  out there, just behind the door, waiting? What if I open it to see him there, that sly smile, and that hand reaching out to clutch at my face once again?

Or worse, what if it's those red goblins with the gold claws and gold teeth, waiting to suck the soul out of my body?

I shake in place, vision tunnelling until all I can see is the knob on the door. I can't go out there-I  _can't_.

I back slowly away from the door, not stopping until my knees hit the edge of my bed and buckle, causing me to sit on the bed with a  _whomp_. I still can't tear my eyes from the door as I slide away across the mattress, pulling the curtain closed again until only a slit remains through which I can watch to see if the door unlocks itself and opens.

_A locked door won't stop him_ , I think.  _He'll come right in. And then he'll_ -

He'll what?

Grab me? Hurt me? Kill me?

_eat me? I'd imagine you were appetizing at_

No. No. Don't think about that. He won't come in. If I don't take my eyes off the door, he won't come in. If I don't blink, he won't come in. Just keep watching, keep waiting, and I'll be safe. I could stay here forever.

I don't remember falling asleep, but the next thing I know, I'm awoken by a loud pounding on my door. I leap up, shrieking in terror, and a voice behind the door shouts in alarm, "Mrs. Grabiner - Mrs. Grabiner are you all right?"

I catch my breath as I recognize the voice - timid Mr. Lewis, who must be terrified out of his wits. I ease myself onto the floor, noticing that the pale light in the room has darkened. It must be evening already, or nearly.

I cross to the door and open it to Mr. Lewis's pale, alarmed face.

"I'm so sorry," I start. "I'd fallen asleep and you startled me."

"Oh!" Mr. Lewis says in relief. "I... I just came to tell you that I made arrangements for your travel back to America. Your car for the airport will arrive in about a half an hour."

So Professor Grabiner wants me out of the house as soon as possible. But as soon as I think that, the tension in my chest ceases, as if punctured with a pin. In a half an hour, I'll be out of the house - away - gone. And back home where things make sense, where I can wear my own clothes, where I'm not a stranger in my own house. Back to my parents. Back to where I  _fit_.

"Thank you so much!" I gush. "But-" I continue, registering the late hour, "it must be nearly dinner time, so-"

Mr. Lewis smiles. "Your husband has made your apologies, there's no need to worry. Oh - and I've brought you a tray, in case you're hungry." He reaches down and lifts a large covered tray from the floor beside the door. "If I may?"

"Yes - of course," I say, backing up to give him room to enter. He sets the tray down on the small tea-table and retreats back to the hallway.

"Half an hour then - I'll just send someone up to pack your things-"

"No, no, I can pack them myself. Thank you very much, Mr. Lewis."

"I'll knock when the car arrives, Mrs. Grabiner," he says, and shuts the door behind him.

The sense of calm that washes over me is overwhelming. Was I afraid just a few minutes ago of Lord Montague lurking behind the door? Or of some silly goblins I'd seen illustrated in a book? All of that seems like a distant memory now. I can call my parents when I get to the airport and ask them to pick me up - they'd conveniently never asked about when my return flight from London would be; probably Professor Potsdam's work. I just hope they're not too surprised when I call them from Newcastle to say I'm coming home. But it will be wonderful just to hear their voices, and know that I'll be with them in a few hours.

I peel off the enchanted outfit that Professor Potsdam had conjured for me this morning, and pull on my jeans, t-shirt and hoodie. Already I feel more like myself, as though I'd slipped an uncomfortable and unfamiliar skin and donned my own once again. I pack the outfit and my other clothes and toiletries into my little suitcase. For a moment, I consider the other work outfits that Professor Potsdam had confiscated in order to provide me with suitable clothes for the house, then decide to leave them with her. She can just bring them to school, and it's not as though I need them before I'll be starting the year again myself. But I ought to say goodbye to her at least; she'll wonder at my sudden absence. And what about Professor Grabiner?

I sit on the little sofa and uncover the tray that Mr. Lewis had set in front of me. On it is a small tray of sandwiches, some fruit, and a molded pudding. I take one of the sandwiches and consider what I should do while chewing.

On the one hand, I'm still angry with him over his attitude toward Mrs. Craft, and frankly with the way he's treated me through this entire trip. Lord Montague's ex-wife was right - dealing with the sudden flares of temper and then the apologetic backtracking is exhausting. I don't deserve it. But on the other hand, I know how hard he's been working - both at trying to deal with his own family situation and the difficulties of being married to a seventeen-year-old girl. And if I'm honest with myself, my actions over the past few days haven't exactly been consistent, or easy to deal with. Maybe I should try talking to him now that we've both calmed down and see if we can't at least end things in a truce, like Mrs. Craft's cards hinted that we might.

And then there's Lord Montague - what of him? I finish my last corner of sandwich, and brush my fingers against my cheek where he'd gripped and bruised it. What a strange thing to do; what a strange thing to  _say_. It certainly sounded threatening, but just what the threat was, I can't figure out. But the fact is that he hurt me, and that it had been deliberate, even if there was no real purpose behind it. I do have to tell someone, even if it's just Professor Potsdam.

I stand, but as I do, there's a knock at the door. Good - maybe it's one of the professors come to say goodbye after all. But when I open the door, it's only Mr. Lewis.

"The car's arrived for you, madam," he says in his breathy, nervous voice. "May I take your bag?"

"Oh - yes-" I say, and he crosses the room to pick up the suitcase.

"If you'll follow me?"

I start off with him down the hall, trailing behind his oddly quick stride. At this rate I'll be bundled into the car without seeing anyone. "Mr. Lewis," I say, once we're on the second floor, "I need to say goodbye to Professor Potsdam, could you just tell me where she is?"

"Unfortunately I can't - she left in rather a great hurry this afternoon for some reason, taking your husband's car. That's why we had to hire one to take you to the airport tonight." He gives me a quick, faint smile over his shoulder, but keeps striding down the hall toward the main staircase.

"She left? To go where?" It doesn't seem like Professor Potsdam to take off without at least leaving a note as she had when she went off to see the castles yesterday.

"I'm sure I don't know, madam, Ms. Potsdam did not confide her destination to me," he says in a tone that manages to be both deferential and waspish at the same time. "She did mention that she'd be back for dinner, but that appears not to have been the case."

By now my absence must have been noticed by everyone. Poor Mrs. Craft - I won't even be able to say good bye after dashing away from her this afternoon. Maybe I'll be able to ask Professor Grabiner to send me her address so I can write her a letter.

"Is Prof - my husband in the dining room, then? I need to talk to him before I go; could you have someone fetch him out?"

"I'm afraid not, madam, as he isn't joining Lord Montague and his guests for tonight's dinner."

Well that's a minor miracle, at any rate - Professor Grabiner won't be put out at getting hauled out of dinner in front of everyone, and with any luck, he'll still be ignorant of Lord Montague's plans for tonight's grand illusion. "Is he working in the study, then? I can just go there."

"Yes, but madam I'm afraid the car is waiting-"

"Then the car can wait," I say with growing impatience, "but I can't. I need to talk to my husband now."

Mr. Lewis stops at the top of the stairs, turning to me. "I'm very sorry madam," he says, "but he's given very strict orders that he isn't to be disturbed, so-"

"Orders?" I say, letting my anger get the better of me. I draw myself up to my full height - though even then the top of my head doesn't reach Mr. Lewis's chin - and put all the fury I can muster into my voice without raising my volume. " _Orders_  are for the staff.  _I_ am his  _wife_ , and I do  _not take orders_."

Mr. Lewis gapes at me, opening his mouth and closing it so many times that he looks like a just-caught trout gulping at the air. Much as I'd like to spare Mr. Lewis the indignity, I keep my eyes on his until he drops his gaze. I march down the stairs, chin held high, and let him scramble after me this time. As I go, I think that maybe it isn't such a bad thing that Professor Grabiner's temper is rubbing off on me.

When I reach the door to Lord Montague's study, I knock on it - not the desperate pounding I'd made earlier this afternoon, but an authoritative knock. When no one answers, I have to resist the urge to glance back at Mr. Lewis - I can't show him any sign of weakness now. I maneuver myself in front of the knob and test it. It's locked of course. So I aim a surreptitious spell, and feel the lock click, and the knob turn under my fingers.

When I walk in, the room is not just dim, but dark. All the shades are drawn, and the lamps in the room are dark. I wonder how anyone can work in that kind of gloom. Maybe he's fallen asleep - neither of us has slept all night, I remember, and feel a surge of something, maybe compassion for once, rise up in me.

"Hieronymous," I say, gently, not wanting to wake him up all at once. There's no answer, so I cross to the desk. "Hieronymous?"

It's so dark that I have to grope on the desk to find a lamp and flip its switch. But when I do, I'm more confused than before.

"There's no one here! But you said-" I start, stepping back toward Mr. Lewis, who is waiting just inside the door frame.

"Did you really think I was going to let you out of here?" he says.

It's not the tone of his voice - changed from the timid, nervous whisper to one that's half insolent and half bored - that makes me freeze mid-step, or sends a gush of ice water through my system. It's not the sudden change in expression on his face, the rabbity look transformed to a gaze filled with disdain, a half-smirk playing on his lips. It's the fact that Mr. Lewis's proper English accent has completely transformed to the nasal drawl of a Boston accent.

And that it's a familiar Boston accent.

"Mr. Currie?" I ask, hesitant, hardly moving my mouth to speak.

His smirk deepens. "I keep telling you to call me David," he says, and backhands me across the face.


	19. Chapter 19

My head snaps to one side. The speed and force of the blow are so strong, I can tell immediately that Mr. Lewis has reinforced his strength with magic. Time seems to slow as I'm knocked off of my feet, and I have a moment to think how stupid it was to try to hide my spellcasting from Mr. Lewis before my temple hits the corner of a bookshelf and I collapse.

Bright white dots appear in my vision as pain shoots through the side of my head, so intense that every word of every spell I've ever learned seems to have been dissolved in it. I know I should get up and fight, shoot a bolt of red magic at his face, or at least heal myself so I can think straight, but I can't do anything except hold the side of my head and inwardly beg the pain to subside. A whimpering sound seems to float up from a distance, and it's a minute before I realize that I'm the one making it.

When my vision clears, I look up. Mr. Lewis is still standing in the doorway, waiting against the frame, still watching me with that half bored expression on his face. Despairing, I realize that I can't fight him after only one year's worth of magical education.

"What do you want?" I ask, in a hoarse whisper.

"You in here, obviously. You'll have to forgive me for prevaricating a bit, but I'm afraid you do not take orders." He lets the contempt drip from the last words, mocking my former display of bravado. "Now if you'll excuse me, I have a few things to take care of, but I'll be back before you know it. And then we can have some fun." The smirk on his face turns to a menacing smile, and he picks up my suitcase and steps out of the room, closing the door behind him.

I want no part of whatever "fun" Mr. Lewis - Mr. Currie - wants to have with me, so after healing the bruise on my temple, I try to teleport myself out of the room. It doesn't work. I can feel the magic flow through me, so I know I've done the spell correctly, but I don't go anywhere at all. Mr. Lewis must have warded the room, just as the professors ward the dungeons during our examinations.

I get up to have a look at the door. Not only has he magically locked the thing, but he's removed the knob and lock mechanism - there's nothing for me to try to unlock. I try anyway, aiming all the spells I can think of at the door, only to have them all repelled - even the flare fizzles and dies as soon as it touches the carved wood. Finally, I give up and try to attack the hinges, first with magic, then with a letter opener I find in the drawer of the desk. The screws don't budge. I even try prying at the door with my fingers, achieving only two broken nails for all my pains. By the time Mr. Lewis returns, I've given up, and have curled up in the chair behind the desk, sucking on one of my injured fingers, and trying to decide whether it's worth it to try to ambush him when he comes back through the door. In the end, I figure it's probably only going to get me another slap across the face or worse, so I sit still as the knob on the door reappears, and he enters the room.

"I hope you didn't get too bored waiting," he purrs at me, still smiling, and back to his English accent. "Everything's taken care of, and I can give you my undivided attention."

That doesn't sound pleasant at all. "What happens now?" I ask, glad that I've at least put the desk between us.

"Now we wait," he says, lighting one of the standing lamps and settling himself into a chair in the corner.

"For what?"

"For your husband."

My heart lifts. "Is he coming?"

"Eventually," says Mr. Lewis, with a smile that I don't like in the slightest.

"Can you tell me what-"

"No," he says. "Unlike you, I do take orders, and mine are to wait and keep you here until your husband returns. That is all you need to know."

"Returns from where?" I ask, but Mr. Lewis stays silent, just staring at me with that nasty smile on his face.

Dread curdles in my stomach. When Professor Grabiner returns from wherever he is, it's obvious that Mr. Lewis doesn't intend for him to get me out of here and let me go home. But maybe it's Professor Grabiner who needs help - when he comes back, he could be hurt, or even killed - though by what or whom, I don't know.

"So," I start, "speaking of taking orders, I assume you were the one who was tracking me this summer?"

Again, Mr. Lewis doesn't say anything, but keeps smiling.

"And that's why you were posing as a stationery customer?" I prod. Absurdly, I start to feel sorry for the Weis - they must have been wondering why their best customer had suddenly abandoned them once I'd left the office.

He keeps smiling, but after a minute, he surprises me by saying something. "I think it's interesting the way humans drop their guard whenever money is concerned. Your co-workers for example - they'd give me whatever information about you I wanted, just so long as I kept buying their little trinkets."

"Humans? So you're not human?" I press, trying not to focus on how irritated I am at my co-workers' gossiping. Mr. Lewis just sits and smiles. I wonder if this was his idea of having "fun" together. If it is, I'm getting sick of it, fast.

All right, so Mr. Lewis isn't human. I start to cycle through the non-human types of creatures that I know about... there are sylphs with butterfly wings, like Pastel, Minnie's roommate. There are goblins, which are apparently red with gold claws, and who like to eat children. There are hodags, which are big, green, lizardy and kind of stupid. There are blue demony-looking people, like Damien who'd been my senior at Initiation. He turned out to be even more of a jerk than Professor Grabiner, and had gotten himself expelled for... something, attacking a fellow student, I think. And then there's the manus, that large blue creature who'd forced me into this marriage.

Now that's something to think about, I realize. The manus - it was a creature bound to the Grabiner family, meaning it wasn't allowed to harm them - that's why I had to marry Professor Grabiner, to join the family and keep the manus from killing and eating me. It hadn't seemed particularly clever or devious, more a user of brute strength. No manus could have put on a show like the one Mr. Lewis has - first posing as a Boston shop owner, then as a timid secretary scared of his own shadow. But a manus has to follow orders, and apparently, Mr. Lewis does too. And that gives me an idea.

"Fine, you don't have to tell me. I know what you are," I say, trying to sound as brash and confident as I had earlier. "You're a manus."

Almost the second the word is out of my mouth, Mr. Lewis leaps at me over the desk, pushing my chair to the wall and locking one hand around my throat. He brings his face to within an inch of mine.

"Say that again," he hisses, "and I'll tear open your ribcage, and eat your thymus." He's still smiling when he says it.

I'm flooded with a mix of triumph and terror. I've succeeded in wounding Mr. Lewis's pride at least. But I have to follow through, call his bluff.

"No you won't," I say, a little hoarse from the pressure against my neck. "You follow orders - you're supposed to keep me alive, aren't you?"

His smile drops, and he growls at me - a strange sound, coming from this thin, blond wisp of a man. But one by one, his fingers loosen, and he straightens and lets me go. "Yes," he admits, and then adds "for now."

That isn't very encouraging, but my mind is still racing. I allow my face to display a bit more of the fear that I'm feeling, and I watch Mr. Lewis smile when he sees it. "Well," I say, putting a bit of a tremor in my voice, "as a legitimate member of the Grabiner family, I order you to-"

"No," he interrupts, holding up one finger. "I take orders, yes, but not from you."

It had been a long shot, anyway, but at least he hadn't hit me again. "From whom then?" I ask. "Lord Montague?" Again, Mr. Lewis doesn't answer, but stares fixedly at me. All right - try something else. "Manuses take orders," I say, and this time Mr. Lewis does hit me, one sharp slap across the face. But this one wasn't magically augmented, and I can ignore the stinging after a moment. I edge out of the chair and wheel it in front of me, as though I'm using it as a shield. Mr. Lewis seems amused by this - his smile widens.

"A manus is a feral beast-" he starts, but I interrupt.

"Yes, and you're so sophisticated - the way you've been hitting me is downright refined," I say.

At this, Mr. Lewis bats the chair away from me, and it spins on its wheels, hitting the far wall, while I jump backwards.

"Stay back there!" I shout, letting my voice go up into a squeak. "You're not supposed to-"

"Kill you," he says, jutting his head forward in a very bestial way, "but no one said anything about a bit of maiming."

I let out another whimper, hoping that I'm not overdoing it, and back straight into the bookshelf behind me, starting in dismay when I can't go any further. I turn back to Mr. Lewis, who is staring at me.

"Maiming," I repeat, "isn't that what feral beasts do?"

This proves to be too much for Mr. Lewis's pride, and he leaps at me again, but this time I'm prepared and teleport myself - two feet to the left.

Mr. Lewis smashes into the bookshelf head first, and before he can recover himself I aim the most powerful sleeping spell I can muster straight at his back. He collapses to the ground and doesn't move. For a moment, neither do I, terrified that the spell hadn't worked, considering that Mr. Lewis isn't human. But he stays still, even when I nudge his foot with mine.

I whirl to the door, muttering "oh please, oh please, oh please" under my breath, and trying the knob. It's locked, but when I use an opening spell, the knob turns under my fingers, and I let out a breath in a rush. He must not have bothered warding the room again, trusting that he could keep one little girl in a locked room without it. Well, that will teach him to underestimate me - but it also means that I have to get as far away from him as possible before he wakes up.

The first thing I think of is the dining room, so I run toward it, down the hall. I have to assume that it was Lord Montague giving Mr. Lewis his orders, but he can't do anything to me in front of all his guests - can he? I don't know what I'll do when I get there - maybe get Mrs. Craft away from the crowd and ask her to drive me out of here and try to find Professor Potsdam? No, how would we find her? Maybe just peek into the dining room to see that Lord Montague is there, distracted, and try to find Professor Grabiner, wherever he is?

I'm still trying to figure out a plan when I skid to a halt in front of the dining room doors, and hesitate before trying to ease one open. I almost lose my nerve before remembering that sleep spells don't last forever, and Mr. Lewis will be furious when he wakes up. I turn the knob and look in.

The table is still set with dishes, but the candelabra are no longer lit. The chairs around the table are empty and pushed back, as though by diners who have left the table after the last course. But there are no staff members clearing away plates or tidying things up. The room is completely empty.

My stomach squirms. Something is wrong with this. I step into the room and walk its length, staring at the table, the chairs, the whole scene redolent with an air of abandonment. I walk through the double doors at the other end of the room and enter the large drawing room, but even before I open the doors I know that there won't be anyone in there for one reason - the room is silent. No, the entire house is silent. I mutter a communication spell, reaching with my mind to see if anyone magical is in the vicinity. But all my mental groping meets with nothing. There's no one in the house at all but me - and Mr. Lewis, who'll be waking up any minute.

I turn and sprint out of the room toward the main staircase. It would be faster to teleport, but I can feel that I'm running low on magic, and I can't risk getting caught without any power if Mr. Lewis does wake up and starts to track me down. I pound up the stairs, panting with effort, and race up the second floor hall toward my bedroom, because - because-

The suitcase, I think, Mr. Lewis took my suitcase and did something with it, and it's probably in my Impossible Room, because where else would it be? I force myself to run up the second flight of stairs even though I'm really gasping now. My old track coach would be ashamed of how out of shape I've gotten at magic school. When I get to the hall, the door to my room is partly open, and I can see that my instinct was right.

My suitcase has been tossed on the floor, my clothes are scattered about the room, and the bedclothes are askew. The settee has been shoved to one side, and the small tea-table, tray of sandwiches and all, has been overturned. The mess looks like there was a struggle, and I even see a scorch mark on the ivory paper lining one wall. For a second I freeze with fear at the thought that Professor Grabiner was here, fighting with - whom? Mr. Lewis? His father? But then I remember the suitcase.

Mr. Lewis said he had to take care of a few things, and took my suitcase and... I survey the room again. He must have set this up, making it look like I'd been taken, but that I'd put up a fight. It's all fake - and it's pretty obvious who was intended to find it.

"Oh God," I mutter to myself, under my breath. Professor Grabiner comes up here, and sees all this, and... what?

And then suddenly it comes to me. I start my incantation for the spirit echo spell, but I go too fast and stutter, so I have to slow down and start again, backing against the wall next to the door to steady myself. And then he's there, Professor Grabiner - a transparent shadow of him, anyway - opening the door to my room, saying "Eliza? Eliz-" and then catching the words as he sees what my room looks like. The expression that spreads across his face is first confused, and then so distressed that it's all I can do to keep from throwing my arms around the shadow's neck and kissing it right there.

Instead, I clench my hands into fists. "Come on," I tell the shade. "Cast spirit echoes. See that I left with Mr. Lewis, and that he came back and set this up! Come on!"

But past Professor Grabiner doesn't cast spirit echoes. He walks slowly toward the bed, eyes fixed on the coverlet. He reaches out, and picks up something small and stares at it for a long moment before uttering an expletive and tossing it aside. He turns and dashes out into the hallway, and I see him start down the stairs, and disappear. The spell's worn off.

The scrap is still there, crumpled on the floor by the wall. I pick it up and smooth it between my fingers. It's a small piece of paper, and there's a single word written on it, in block capital letters.

REVANE


	20. Chapter 20

My insides twist as I stare at the word written on the page. Revane Cottage - the Otherworld - Professor Grabiner must think I've been taken there. But why?

Well, the why doesn't matter. I'd better get there myself, and quickly - Professor Grabiner's clearly been lured there for some nefarious purpose, and I certainly can't stay here with Mr. Lewis. The only problem is how to get there.

I try to think back to my white magic courses. Professor Potsdam said that if we had enough white magic, we could travel through the something gate... the spiral gate? - into the Otherworld. But I don't know how much is enough, only that as a first year student, I probably don't have enough yet. But then another memory surfaces, bobbing in my head as I try to seize it. I can't get to the Otherworld with the amount of magic I have, especially now that I've depleted it, but there was something about Revane Cottage that-

_use it for the honeymoon_

Of course - the key! That little wooden box was a key to Revane Cottage, and Professor Grabiner had snatched it out of my hands as though... as though he were afraid of what would happen to me if I'd touched it. As though I could be taken to the Otherworld just by handling it. And it's in Professor Grabiner's suitcase!

I turn and run into the hallway and down the stairs again, only because that's where Professor Grabiner's shade had gone. But I don't know where he's been staying, or where he's been keeping his things, and time is running out. I stop, listening for any noise, but the pounding of my heart is too loud for me to possibly hear any sounds from the first floor.

_The hall of spare bedrooms - try that first_ , I think. Maybe he's taken one of the rooms but cast an illusion on it to make it seem unoccupied. If so, it would be a good place to work whatever spell he needed to in order to get to the Otherworld without interruption - at least, I hope so. And I hope he hasn't used the key himself and taken it to the Otherworld with him.

When I get to the turn in the hallway with the spare bedrooms, I skid to a halt. I'm too worried about my dwindling supply of magic to cast spirit echoes again, but I realize - remembering a long ago examination from school - that I have enough to cast a track scent spell. I do, and am immediately hit by a scent that's obviously Professor Grabiner leading into the hallway. The smell is a rather heady mix of leather book bindings, paper, and a hint of ink. I almost stop just to breathe it in, but the thought of Mr. Lewis possibly ascending the stairs behind me spurs me onward in the direction of the smell.

Almost as soon as I start running, it's gone, and I have to stop again. Turning back, the smell is a bit stronger, but it's leading into the first room in this hallway - not a bedroom, but the music room. Cautiously I enter the room. The scent is much stronger. I flip on the lamp, surveying the contents of the room - the piano, the shelf of music.

I close the door and lock it, knowing that won't keep Mr. Lewis out, but deciding that if I can delay him for even a moment, it might be worth it. Once I'm locked in, I cast a truesight spell. The shelf and instrument vanish and are replaced by the furnishings of a small bedroom - spartan, but comfortable. There's a bed in place of the piano, and the music shelf has become a dresser. And when I open the top drawer, the box is there, nestled in a pile of folded clothes.

I open the box and lay the small objects on the surface of the dresser, cupping my hand to keep the beads from rolling away. I recognize them from that morning in March when I'd received the package - the jewel on its Y-shaped post, the crystal disc with symbols, and the faceted stone on a gold post. They all must go together somehow.

I start playing with the objects, first sticking the gold post through the hole in the crystal disc. They fit together with a satisfying click, but I can't see any obvious way to put the rest of the objects together. I look into the box to see if there were any objects I missed - vainly, I know - but then something catches my eye. There are several small depressions at the bottom of the box's interior, forming a circle with one, smaller depression in the center. I push the pin point of the gold post into the center depression. The point fits, supporting the gold post and the crystal disk that's threaded onto it, so the whole thing stands upright, within the box.

My hands shake as I start placing the small beads into the surrounding depressions, creating a dotted circle inside the wood of the box's interior. I nearly drop half of the beads once when I hear a soft sound - a footstep? - that seems to come outside of the hall, and I'm positive that Mr. Lewis has caught up with me. But after a frozen moment, nothing happens, and I carefully continue, holding my breath. When the last bead is placed, they've filled all the depressions to form a complete circle.

Okay - now the jewel. I pick up the Y-shape and hold it so that the jewel dangles, tapping it once with my finger so that it spins around its horizontal post. It looks as though it needs to hang, but on what?

There's another small sound outside the closed door and I jump, nearly knocking the whole box over, but grabbing it and saving it at the last minute. This causes the lid of the box to nearly swing shut, and I stop it with my thumb, pinching it. I wince at the pain, but don't let go of the box - and then I notice that the lid falling caused the largest hook to swing down. It's worth a shot, I suppose - so I hang the end of the Y-shape onto the hook. If I move some of the other latches here... and then there... and this way... the lid stands up on its own, dangling the jewel above the red stone. Every piece is in place, and then I see the crystal disc start to spin - very slowly at first, and then faster. The jewel in its post above starts spinning too, and both of them flash in the light of the lamp.

I step back, waiting for something to happen, but nothing does - only the soft whir of the disc and jewel as they continue to spin.

"Come on," I say to them, teeth clenched. "What are you waiting for?" There's another sound - louder this time - in the hall, and I step forward again to grip the edge of the dresser. "Come  _on_!"

Is there something else I need to do - another spell? I go through the spells I've learned in the last year, tallying them up, but none seem to be right.

"What do I do?" I ask the box, "Just take me there, please - please -  _please_!" And suddenly my mom's voice comes back to me, from back when I was a kid learning how to say 'please.'  _What do we say? Say the magic word._

Not please, but-

I bring my face close to the whirring objects and ask "Revane?"

And then everything shifts.

I feel as though I'm getting sucked through the eye of a needle, insides-first. I can't breathe, can't move, can't think - until I'm cast out onto a flat surface, heaving.

For a long time I have to crouch on all fours, fighting nausea, retching and coughing until I finally catch my breath. I keep my eyes closed for a minute, sucking in deep gulps of air. My stomach is roiling, but as it begins to settle, I feel something even worse deep inside me, somewhere. It's a sense of strange emptiness in a place that shouldn't feel empty.

My magic is used up - I'm completely tapped out.

Panicking, I try to think of what to do. I know there's a way to suck magical power from the Otherworld, or to convert a bit of my physical health into magic, but both of those spells need magic to be able to work - and I don't have anything left. My journey through the spiral gate must have taken up the last of my reserve. And now I'm in the Otherworld without any way to protect myself.

When I open my eyes, I half expect to be surrounded by a ring of slavering red goblins, their gold claws prepared to rip me open from stem to sternum. But there are no goblins, no manuses, and no hodags waiting for me. There's just the room.

The walls and ceiling are entirely formed of huge panes of what looks like glass - clear glass on the sloped ceiling, and smoked glass for the walls. They let in a rich, golden light - a warm, sunset light with a tinge of mauve - with no visible source. Between the glass are slabs of polished wood, caramel-colored, with ripples of chestnut in the grain. The floor is the same type of wood, though there are no joints in it, as though the entire thing had been carved out of one staggeringly enormous tree. There's a stone fireplace in one corner, cold and clean, with a set of steps leading down toward it, forming one large square.

I can instinctively see, now, why Lord Montague doesn't choose to make a home here, but praises his son's taste in loving it at the same time. Lord Montague's home is huge and imposing, designed to intimidate. This room, in contrast, seems to fit itself around me, seems to be a place to call home. I feel a fierce pride well up in me, that Professor Grabiner is the one who can appreciate that a home should fit the people inside it. It's easily the most beautiful room I've ever seen.

Well - it would be, except for the corpses littering the floor.

I don't recognize them as corpses - or even as people - at first. They're just objects scattered on the floor around me. They seem half-familiar, something I should understand, but don't, until I see the kilt.

I stare at it for a minute, squinting, wondering where I'd seen it before, wondering why there seem to be legs protruding from it on one end, and a large belly in a black jacket on the other. I step closer, and - how strange - the belly seems to be covered in a bushy beard that reaches up to a face wearing a gold pinz-nez with shattered lenses. Behind the lenses are a pair of eyes open wide and protruding as if in horror.

Then everything snaps into focus and I stagger, realizing - it's Beardy McHaggis - Mr. Duncan - dead.

I whip my head to one side, then the other, registering the bodies piled around me. There's round, red-faced Mr. Musgrove, who teased Professor Grabiner that first night - there's the man with the clipped goatee who bored me during last night's dinner. In the corner, looking like a sparrow frozen on a sidewalk, is tiny Dame Sutworth, her spangled dress hiked too far up, showing her spindly thighs. And there, by the steps leading to the fireplace, is Mrs. Craft.

I run to her then, practically tripping over a man whose name I can't remember to kneel beside her, grabbing her face in both of my hands. Her eyes are open too, bulging outward. Bright, clear, blue eyes - how had I never noticed that she had blue eyes? The fiery color of her dyed hair looks too alive for her to be dead.

"No," says someone from far away, who I vaguely recognize as me. "No, no, no, no,  _no_."

She can't be dead, not Mrs. Craft who loved Errol Flynn and tarot cards, who could tell stories from history and make them sound like an exciting television program. Not Mrs. Craft who defused a bomb with her brain to save her little brother, and who told me that even happy endings end in death.

Not Mrs. Craft, who hugged me, and told me that everything was going to be all right.

I stay there for a long time waiting to cry, but the tears don't come. I can feel them inside me, weighing me down like a bag of pebbles, but they won't come out.

I stroke her hair once, twice. But I can't stay, much as I want to - I have to find Professor Grabiner no matter what, because I can't stay here without any magic. I just have to pray that he's all right and can take me - and Mrs. Craft - home.

"I'll come back, I promise," I say to Mrs. Craft. "I'm not going to leave you here."

I stand. I can see one single door, large and rounded at the top, leading out of the room. I take a deep breath and hold it, willing that it won't lead outside and away from what I hope are the wards protecting the building - the only thing separating me from any creatures out there who would eat my soul given a fraction of a chance.

But when I open the door, it only leads to a narrow, twisting hallway studded with doors that look almost identical to the one I've just opened. How am I going to find Professor Grabiner in time if I have to search every room? And what if they only lead to more hallways?

No - I can't think about that now. I just have to go on and hope for the best. I take off down the hallway, opening doors at random. The rooms behind them are just as beautiful as the room I've come from - and even more empty. There's no furniture, no people, no goblins and - thankfully - no corpses. Just room after room, each with a different shape or design, and I continue until I feel as though I've nearly run for a mile without any success.

I stop, leaning forward and gripping my knees, trying to catch my breath. The hall is so quiet - far too quiet - and far too long. Just how big is this house?

I try to think back to what I know about Revane Cottage - precious little, other than the fact that Violet met her end here - and then what I know about the Otherworld. I think back to Professor Potsdam's lecture about how we should never come here, that there would be no punishment, because we would be  _gone_. I shiver at that, but it's not helping me now. And then there was what Lord Montague told me this afternoon, about how I could travel here without fear in a year or two - fat lot of good that does me. But then I remember something else he said.

" _Many of the constraints to using magic that we experience here simply don't exist there... The concept of space is nearly meaningless."_

If that's the case, then maybe it's me, my confused mind, that's causing these long twisting hallways. And there's no reason why I shouldn't be one step - or a thousand - from Professor Grabiner if I want to be, with or without a reserve of magic.

I square myself in front of the next door, trying to ignore the little voice inside me that's saying " _this is stupid, what on earth do you think you're doing_?"

I have no idea what to do, so I just follow my instinct. I press both palms against the door - noticing, as I do, that the stone of my ourobouros ring, which had seemed to contain a subtle luster before, is now positively glowing - emitting a rich, steady red light, like that of a burning piece of coal. I stare at it for a moment, but the ring doesn't do anything besides glow.

_Fine_ , I think,  _useless thing_. I close my eyes, concentrating on the door before me.

"Okay, door," I say out loud. "You're the door I've picked, so listen up. I'm going to open you in a minute, and I'm going to find Prof - Hieronymous - in there. And alive," I add, hurriedly, even though I know the door won't have much say in the matter. "So get ready. I'm opening you. Right  _now_." And without opening my eyes, I turn the knob and push the door inward.

Immediately I both hear and feel a  _whoosh_ -the rush of a magic spell being cast right in front of me. I open my eyes eagerly, starting to smile, but then freeze.

The room I've opened into is huge, practically an auditorium, with row after row of low stone benches, almost like pews in a church or seats in a lecture hall. A set of steps leads from the door into the center of the room where a huge, rough stone slab sits alone like an altar. And there I see Lord Montague, standing still and erect, behind the stone. As I watch, he rears back and hurls a spell, and as I watch it arc across the room, I see what it's aimed at - it's Professor Grabiner, who's standing on a bench a few rows away.

I nearly scream but then Professor Grabiner dodges the spell, diving under one of the stone benches, and re-emerging three rows down to throw some sort of lighting spell at his father. He doesn't pause to see whether it lands, but jumps onto another bench, racing along its length, and flinging a series of bolts one after the other. He's going so fast that I can tell he's augmented his speed, but at the same time, he's incredibly graceful - his body moving in fluid motions as he dodges another spell, and then another.

But when I look back at Lord Montague, he hasn't moved - he's standing stock-still behind the stone, blocking each of Professor Grabiner's spells with a single flick. He aims a spell at Professor Grabiner only when he seems particularly vulnerable - and although Professor Grabiner is still dodging, it seems as though each spell gets closer to its mark every time. Lord Montague looks almost bored with the whole thing, and with horror, I realize that he's so powerful that he doesn't even need to move to win this fight - he's trying to wear Professor Grabiner out. And it's working.

I have to do something - but what can I do? Without magic, I'm as helpless as I was back at the Weis' office, when I had to be rescued from a cockroach by a pregnant receptionist. I cast off ideas as quickly as they come into my head - I could try to sneak up on Lord Montague and knock him down? He'd see me before I took ten steps! I could distract him by running down the stairs? I'd take the full force of a spell without magically augmented speed, and then I'd be as dead as Mrs. Cr - no, no, don't think about that now. I could-

But then Lord Montague turns and sees me. Our eyes lock, and I can't move, can't think of anything to do except stand there. His eyes narrow and he smiles at me - the same sly, malevolent smile he'd given me right before he'd sunk his fingers into my cheeks this afternoon.

"We-e-ell, Hieronymous," he says slowly, drawing out the words while deflecting another of Professor Grabiner's spells with one flick of a finger. "It seems that your wife has decided to join us after all. Isn't that sweet?"

Professor Grabiner stops, mid-stride, and whips his head around to see me standing in the doorway, the expression on his face anguished. He whirls around again but it's too late - Lord Montague's next spell catches him square in the chest and flings him across the room to the stone wall behind him. Something inside him breaks with a crack, and he crumples to the ground.


	21. Chapter 21

I scream, and then do the one thing that's gotten me into this whole mess - I run toward Professor Grabiner without a thought other than  _I have to save him_.

" _No_ ," says Lord Montague, and flings one hand out in front of him, palm towards me. I smash into an invisible barrier, face first, and fall backwards. I hear the snap in my nose before I feel it, and clap one hand to my face, feeling blood gush down onto my chin. The pain of it drives all motivation from my head, and I lie there snuffling for a long moment before I can roll to my side and sit up, trying to staunch the blood with one sleeve of my hoodie.

"Now this _is_ a surprise," says Lord Montague, affecting a casual drawl. "I could have sworn I'd given orders to keep you back at the house until I was ready for you. How on earth did you get past Mr. Lewis?"

He waits for me, still smiling, as I right myself. "I'm waiting," he says, his impatience barely concealed behind the smile.

"I called him a manus," I say, trying to keep my voice steady. It comes out "I galled hib a badus."

"You what?"

"I  _galled_  hib a  _badus_. Ad he lossd his tembur."

"He lost his temper? Ahh-" and Lord Montague suddenly doubles over, laughing. "He lost his temper!" He howls with amusement, leaning forward with both hands gripping his knees, breathless. I wonder if I should try to rush him while he seems so helpless, but I immediately dismiss the thought. Even if it isn't an act, I can sense that his barrier is still in front of me, and he can produce another in a matter of seconds if I try to get around it.

"Oh - goodness me," Lord Montague says, wiping a tear from one eye. "Yes, Mr. Lewis is rather vain, isn't he? And you called him a manus! But really, my dear, I didn't think you could do it. You're obviously not the dolt that Hieronymous told me you were."

My jaw drops at this, and Lord Montague's grin widens, showing me that he's met his mark. "Yes, I'm afraid I've underestimated you. But -  _NO_."

This last word is directed at Professor Grabiner, who was struggling to right himself - without success - during this exchange. Lord Montague shoots his hand towards him, and Professor Grabiner crumples again, looking less like Professor Grabiner and more like a pile of objects that, if assembled in the correct order, might resemble something vaguely Professor Grabiner shaped.

" _STOB IT_!" I scream. " _Leave hib alode!_ " But when I turn back to Lord Montague, I can see that he considers my protest futile - even comic. He smiles at me again.

"As I was saying, you're not the dolt Hieronymous told me you were." He pauses between each word, giving them barbs that are hardly necessary. "How fascinating."

"Whad do you wand?" I ask, pleading. "Why did you do id? Why did you kill all those beople? I thoughd they were your  _friends_."

Lord Montague chuckles at this. "Friends?" he says, quietly. "As if I could be friends with fools like that - idiot children who pretend to dabble in magic without having the least idea what true magic can do."

Anger flares up in me. "Dot Mrs. Craft!" I say. "She was bagic, she just - she-" But Lord Montague starts laughing again, cutting me off.

"Oh no! Oh no, no, no. And I thought you were showing some signs of cleverness after all," he says, looking almost regretful.

I sniff furiously, trying to clear my nose, wiping my face with my sleeve and smearing blood all over my mouth and chin. "She _was_ magic," I say, but then I cut myself off, realizing.

"Yes?" says Lord Montague, registering my expression.

"They... they were all magic?"

" _There_  you go," he says, the voice of the impatient schoolteacher who has just coaxed a student into answering an obvious question. "They all had potential to be magicians, but they never made the Choice. Funny thing about the aristocracy in Britain - for some reason, being a magician was never the respectable occupation it might once have been. It must have been the stigma from back when a magician was just another sort of servant. And so all of the aristocratic families - even the landed gentry! - kept their children from making the Choice. Except for the Grabiners, of course."

"I still don't see why-"

" _Think_  for a minute, would you?" says Lord Montague, his smile dropping into an irritated frown. "Think about what I would want to do with a load of know-nothing, magic-curious ninnies who'd latch onto any charlatan who gave them a hint of anything real."

" _I don't know!_ " I scream at him. "If you hated them so much, why didn't you just leave them alone?"

"Beca-ause," he says, coaxing.

"Because," I say, closing my eyes in exhaustion, "because you wanted something. And if they're all magic, you wanted..."

"Yes," Lord Montague says, expectant.

"Their magic," I conclude, opening my eyes again. "But - if your magic gets taken away when you don't make the Choice-"

"But it doesn't," says Lord Montague. "Not here, anyway - I don't know what they do in America, but here, adolescent psyches are considered too delicate for full removal. Their magic just gets stoppered - it's in them, but they can't use it. And if you know the right spell, you can break in and suck it out, like marrow out of a bone." He gives me his beatific smile. "Unfortunately the operation tends to be fatal. But that's the price one pays."

I stare at Lord Montague with growing disgust. Professor Grabiner might be a snob about non-magical people, but Lord Montague is a monster on an entirely different level. "All right, you've got their magic, you killed them for it. So what do you want with-" I start, but stop, and watch Lord Montague. He's stopped listening to me, and has lifted his hands, raising Professor Grabiner from his position by the wall and floating him toward the stone slab that Lord Montague stands behind.

"No," I say, taking a step forward.

But Lord Montague says "stay back," and I stop. He settles Professor Grabiner on the slab, and looks back up at me.

"Why should I stay back?" I shout, near hysteria. "You know I can't do anything to you, you know I'm out of magic, don't you?"

"I know," says Lord Montague "But I'll need to keep you alive, just the same."

"For how long?" I ask, remembering Mr. Lewis's ominous statement that he was to keep me alive " _for now_."

"Until Hieronymous agrees to let me have his body, of course. Surely you've figured that out by now."

I'm stunned to silence, and Lord Montague heaves a beleaguered sigh that's only half an act. "Didn't he tell you that I'm dying? I need his body to go on, and I need him to agree to let me have it."

"No," I say. "Professor Potsdam said that with enough green magic, your body can last you for centuries-"

"And do you understand how much maintenance that takes?" Lord Montague shouts with sudden fury. "The diet alone is enough to drive a man to suicide! No, no, it's far better to upgrade to a new model when the time comes. And for that, I need Hieronymous. But I need a great deal of magic to work the spell - hence all of those-" he pauses wrinkling his nose, " _things_  littering the foyer. And  _he_ ," he says, patting his unconscious son on the arm, "needs to agree of his own free will; otherwise the spell won't take, alas."

"He'd never do it," I say, vehement. "He'd rather die before he'd let a murderer have his body."

"Well, yes, that's true," says Lord Montague with a mock-rueful look. "But then there are other methods of persuasion. For example, I told him that I'd be happy to torture you to death in front of him if he continued to be obstinate."

I don't know what to say to this - Lord Montague's smiling in a way that almost indicates that he's joking, but his eyes glitter in a way that tells me he's serious.

"And do you know what he said to me?" continues Lord Montague. "He said  _no_. Can you believe it? He once begged me to let him die to save the woman he loved, but he wouldn't even consider sacrificing himself for you."

Every word Lord Montague says is a knife in my heart, and he knows it. He practically leers with pleasure as he watches my face fall.

"Th - that's fine," I say, trying and failing to stop my voice from shaking. "I'd rather die than-"

"But would you rather be tortured?" asks Lord Montague patiently. "I thought I'd have Mr. Lewis rip your fingernails out first. He'll enjoy that - I understand it's quite painful. And then he could pop your eyes out of their sockets, one at a time. It's very easy to do, and think of the interesting view you'll have as they're dangling from those pretty little cheeks. You'll be screaming for mercy within five minutes, I think, but I wonder how long Hieronymous can hold out, watching? Shall we wake him up and find out?"

"No!" I blurt, panicking. I have to keep Lord Montague from calling Mr. Lewis - once he's here, it'll all be over - as I'm sure he's furious with me and only too happy to have a chance at torture. And there won't be any tricks to play this time; Mr. Lewis will be on his guard after being fooled once, and Lord Montague's far more cagey as well as far more powerful, having ingested so much magic from his guests.

He cocks his head to one side. "Oh?" he says. "Do you have a better idea? Please let me know, I'm quite open to suggestion." He's laying it on thick, as though he's dangling a treat in front of a pet, preparing to jerk it away at any moment.

_He's enjoying himself_ , I realize. And why not? He has my undivided attention, and if there's one thing Lord Montague has shown he loves, it's a captive audience. If I can keep him enjoying himself - keep him talking - I can buy some time. But time for what, I don't know.

"I just still don't understand," I start slowly. "You could use anyone's body, it doesn't have to be Prof-Hieronymous. You could find someone who'd agree."

"That's as may be," says Lord Montague, "but I'm afraid you're still not understanding the importance of continuing the family. The Grabiners have built something over the past thousand years - political influence, social standing, and, if you'll forgive me for mentioning it, a great deal of money. I'm not about to abandon all of that because of one stubborn child."

"The money..." I say to myself, suddenly repulsed at how stupid I've been. "Of course - that's why you were so upset about the estate this morning." Professor Grabiner had, in a way, figured it all out already - there was no reason for Lord Montague to be angry about the estate tax, as he'd be dead when it took effect. It makes much more sense - Lord Montague was trying to save the estate from being taxed so he could keep it all for himself by becoming his own heir.

"Yes, he did rather muck things up, didn't he?" Lord Montague says with a glare at his son. "In this body I don't have the stamina to perform the kind of white magic needed to shield the estate from the tax authorities any more. I'd hoped he'd take care of it before it became necessary for me to - ah - step in, so to speak. Now it appears as though I'll have to try to fix things up after the fact. It can be done, of course, but  _such_  a bother." He gives me an exaggerated, martyred look. "And on top of that I have my own funeral to arrange! I just wish he weren't so obstinate about performing white magic. It's my own fault really - I should have gotten him back here years ago so that we could plan things properly. I  _did_  try my best. I was  _ever_ so servile in my letters to him - he would have been astonished if he'd actually bothered to read them. But I kept waiting... I suppose I hoped that he'd get himself married before I had to take him."

My hackles raise at this. "Why?"

Lord Montague chuckles. "Well for one thing it's a nice bit of leverage. Better to threaten to torture a wife than a friend or acquaintance. Children are even better, but one has to work with the resources one is given. Even if it's a marriage that's, well, not exactly based on affection. Oh  _don't_  give me that look," he snaps, watching the shock spread across my face. "I've known about the circumstances of your marriage since the day it took place."

"How-" I say, voice no more than a squeak.

"Why, Petunia of course," he says with a grin that shows he's been aching to reveal his source of information, because of how painful it is for me to hear. "She's been filling me in on Hieronymous's comings and goings ever since he started working for her. Very useful resource, Petunia. She even saved me the bother of having Mr. Lewis fetch you from America. I wouldn't be surprised if she'd engineered your entire marriage herself. I don't know what that woman  _wouldn't_  do for money - and she's received plenty of it for her pains."

I feel as though my heart is being squeezed in a vise. Professor Potsdam, on Lord Montague's side all along - me, married to a teacher nearly twenty years my senior, and Professor Grabiner served up as a sacrifice to his father, for what? For  _money_. I can't hide the misery I feel, and Lord Montague watches me, drinking it in with undisguised glee.

"And Hieronymous is  _such_  an idiot when it comes to women. Always going about falling in love with them - or at least dashing off to rescue them without thinking. I only wish Petunia had found a better specimen for the job, or at least a prettier one. I've been a bit hyperbolic about your looks, I'm afraid - I won't deny you have a certain gamine charm, but really, you don't compare with your predecessor in the slightest."

"I know," I say, my voice husky with unshed tears. "I saw the photograph." Lord Montague's leer at that statement is unmistakable. "You left it for me to find, didn't you?"

"Just think of it as a little wedding present from me," he says. "A reminder of what you're up against. Your schoolgirl crush is very affecting, don't get me wrong, but if you think the power of your  _love_  is enough to make him  _forget_ -" he cuts off, unable to keep from a high-pitched, hysterical giggle that opens up into a howl of laughter that forces him to bend, clutching his knees again. "Oh I  _am_  sorry," he says when he finishes, wiping a tear - real or fake, I'm too far away to tell - "it just sounds like something out of a paperback romance novel. A  _cheap_  one."

I feel as though Lord Montague has hollowed out my insides. Even if Mr. Lewis did come to tear out my fingernails, he wouldn't be able to equal the pain Lord Montague's inflicted with those words - because I know that everything he says is right.

"I wasn't - I mean, I didn't want him to forget-" I start, but it's a lie. I hang my head and slump my shoulders, unable to continue. "You're right," I say, defeated. "She was better."

"Yes, she really was," Lord Montague says, almost absently. "Beautiful, accomplished, intelligent - just  _delicious_."

The last word makes me jerk my head up. If he sees me, Lord Montague doesn't seem to register it. Instead, he's staring past me, over my shoulder, with a familiar expression on his face. I'd seen it the first night, when he'd run his hand down the side of my dress to feel the curves under the thin fabric, and this afternoon, when he'd started stroking my cheek. I'd interpreted the expression as the libidinous look of an older man who wants nothing more than to put his hands on a younger woman, but here, the same look seems much greedier, and more base. Not lust, but _hunger_. For a moment I stare at him, not quite believing what I'm seeing.

" _You_ ," I say, and it comes out as hardly more than a whisper. As quiet as I am, Lord Montague's eyes snap back into focus and he stares back at me, his smile fading slightly at the corners.

"You  _ate_  her," I say, just barely raising my voice. "It was never any goblins. It was you."


	22. Chapter 22

The scowl Lord Montague gives me is so fierce that I'm reminded of that first dinner, when I'd made the crack about etiquette. Now, as then, the expression only lasts for an instant before smoothing into another mocking smile.

"My greatest regret," he says, in a faux-conciliatory tone. "But you know, after I'd chased those goblins off of her, she was lying there helpless... and so tempting that I simply couldn't resist. It's caused no end of trouble, it's true." He pokes at Professor Grabiner's prone form. "It took layer on layer of memory spells to convince him the goblins had eaten her, and even then our relationship - such as it was - was never really the same. Memory spells are more art than science, you know, and the more ingrained a moment is in one's memory, the more difficult it is to erase. I thought I'd broken his brain for a bit of it. He recovered, yes, but ever since he's been very touchy about performing white magic unless he had to. And then, he's always been quite nasty about me." Lord Montague gives a self-deprecating shrug.

"But you  _ate_  her!" I say.

"I told you I regretted it, didn't I?" he snaps. "If I hadn't eaten her when I did, I'd have a much nicer advantage over Hieronymous, don't you think? If he wouldn't last five minutes seeing you tortured, do you think he'd last more than five seconds with her? And," he adds, his voice going vicious, "the way they were going at it, by now I'd have at least a few children lined up for when Hieronymous' body runs out. But then, you know how it is when you're young and in love. Oh - no, wait, you don't, do you?"

His words still hurt, but the pain is muted now. "What are you?" I ask.

"A viscount," he says, acidly, "and I'll thank you to-"

"Humans don't eat other humans' souls; what _are_ you?"

"But I  _am_  human-just as human as you are, or near enough," he says, eyes narrowing.

I nudge my foot forward a few inches, and meet with nothing-the barrier before me has vanished. I move forward, down a step leading to the stone slab.

"Stay back!" Lord Montague yells, but I take another step down.

"I'll stop if you tell me," I say, walking slowly but thinking fast. Just a minute ago he was having a wonderful time threatening me, and now he looks almost anxious. With no magic, there's nothing I can do to him, and he's already proven that he's much stronger than me physically. And he still has the chance to call Mr. Lewis and put an end to this strange impasse-but I'm certainly not going to suggest he do that.

_Why doesn't he just put up another barrier_? I wonder, but then I realize that he might be running out of magic himself. I don't know how much he'd expended during his fight with Professor Grabiner, and he still apparently needs a huge supply for the spell that will let him take his son's body. It's worth a gamble, I decide, and I take another step down.

"All  _right_ ," he says, testily, and I halt. "The first time I switched bodies-"

"You've done this before?" I interrupt, aghast.

"Well of course I've done this before, what do you think?" he snaps. "I spent years trying to work the spell out, I knew it could be done, but I couldn't figure out how to get the amount of magic I needed to do it. So I found a creature that did, and fortunately it was willing to make a deal. The spell I needed to extract magic from others in exchange for a bit of my own soul. But as part of the exchange, I took on a few... characteristics."

"Like a taste for human soul," I say, feeling a little sick.

"For  _young_  soul; once you've tasted it, there's really nothing like it," he says, the grin slowly spreading across his face again. "I find it rather irresistible. So you'll have to stay back; otherwise I won't be answerable for my behavior."

_All right, if he eats me, he can't torture me; if he can't torture me, he'll never get Professor Grabiner to agree to the spell, but then I'd be dead so... the situation's just as hopeless as it was five minutes ago._

"And I'd really rather not," he continues. "After all, we'll be married shortly - assuming Hieronymous agrees to the spell quickly enough to leave you in decent shape, that is - and I really can't waste any more time."

"What do you mean?" I ask.

"Well, as I said, I do need a replacement for when Hieronymous runs out." He sighs. "I always seem to have to take matters into my own hands - it's as though the men in this family don't have any concept of continuing the line. I could look for another wife, I suppose, but Hieronymous is getting on in years himself. The next replacement will need to be old enough by the time he's about to go. And you're here already, and so young..." He smirks at me. "I could be very nice to you, you know. You might even enjoy it. In fact, I could make you forget it wasn't him in the first place."

The thought of Lord Montague so much as touching me with Professor Grabiner's body makes my skin crawl, and as for the prospect of being used to breed my own father-in-law's replacement body - I might prefer to be eaten after all. I glance at Professor Grabiner, but he's still completely out. There's nothing to do but stall for more time.

"So who are you really?" I ask, going the only route I can think of.

"Hmm?" murmurs Lord Montague, who's turned his attention to his son again.

"If we're going to be married, I should at least know who-"

"I think that's enough for now," says Lord Montague. "Hieronymous will be awake again soon, and I'd like Mr. Lewis to be here and ready when he does. So why don't we-"

"Wait -  _wait_!" I start in a panic, putting my hands up in front of me. A red flash streaks across the edge of my vision - my ring, still glowing with its inner light. I stare at it for a second, inwardly pleading to it -  _be magic, be magic, do SOMETHING_! But the ring doesn't do anything but cast a mysterious red sheen - and spark a memory.

" _Isolde!_ " I shout, calling out the name of the ring's former owner. It's a stab in the dark, a guess. But the effect on Lord Montague is extraordinary.

He moves so quickly, I barely see him streak up the steps before he slams into me. He knocks me to the ground, my head barely missing the corner of the step behind me. The blow drives all of the breath out of me, causing my teeth to snap around the bite I'd already made in my mouth and tearing it again. Lord Montague lands, crouched on top of me, his face an inch from mine.

"Clever," he hisses. "How did you guess?"

I'm nearly paralyzed with fear, but manage to sputter out an answer. "The ring - it was in the portrait, and you said you recognized it yesterday, but-"  _but what was it Professor Grabiner had said in the car?_ "But those things had been sitting in a box for a hundred years, you couldn't have recognized it unless - and - and you said the _men_  in this family - and Mrs. Craft said that the past three generations-" I gulp, trying to calm myself, and trying to catch up with the thoughts racing through my head. "She said there was only one child, and that's because you only ever needed one - it would put you around the fourteenth viscount, and he was-"

"My nephew, yes," Lord Montague -  _Isolde Grabiner_ \- says, narrowing his - her - set of borrowed eyes at me.  _Es_  set of borrowed eyes, I think, and let out a nervous giggle. "What?" asks Lord Montague.

"Did you get disinherited, like Mrs. Craft said?" Like what had  _happened_  to Mrs. Craft. "Just because you were a girl?"

Lord Montague grasps me by the chin and slams my head down into one of the steps - hard enough that spots bloom before my eyes. " _THEY HAD NO RIGHT_!" he screams, spraying spit onto my face - into my  _mouth_. " _I was the oldest and the most capable - he was a fool! They gave everything to him and left me with NOTHING_!" He slams my head into the step again, gripping my already bruised cheeks in his hand. "All my life I was dependent on his largesse," he continues, his voice dropped to a low whisper and somehow more dangerous for the change in volume. "I had nothing for myself - no home, no prospects, no standing, no marriage, no money. He  _took_  my  _life_. So I took his son - a fair enough bargain don't you think? And then I took  _his_  son. And his son's son. And now I'm going to take-" He cuts himself off abruptly, squinting down at me. Then slowly, almost absently, he licks a mouthful of congealing blood from my chin.

I fight the urge to gag, feeling my throat hitch as I watch Lord Montague close his mouth around his tongue, eyes losing focus, savoring the taste as I had savored the champagne he'd given me two nights ago. My mind continues to race, trying to decipher his meaning.

_And now he's going to take me, and use me to get a child for when Hieronymous runs out - no, and now he's going to take me and_ eat _me and leave just another soulless carcass, another Violet - no, and now he's going to take me and live in my body, but how could he live in a body that holds a soul that he wants to eat?_

And then I have an idea, one that cuts like crystal through the muddle in my head.

"What happens to his soul, when you take him?" I ask, no louder than a whisper. Lord Grabiner's eyes focus on mine again, and his mouth twists.

"Why?" he asks, eyes narrowing.

I swallow hard. "Because he's too old, he wouldn't be - he wouldn't be appetizing would he? But if you took me instead of him-"

"No," Lord Montague says. But there's uncertainty in his voice. And behind the uncertainty, greed.

I'm still terrified, but my sudden sense of purpose serves to ground me, and lets me make a coherent argument. "All that about getting a replacement child - you'd never be able to keep me around for long enough. You'd try to hold out but you'd just end up eating my soul in the end because you couldn't resist it. You barely made it through the past three days, you've been playing with me like I was a snack the whole time. So if I'm just going to have my soul eaten anyway-" I take a deep, shuddery breath, trying to steel myself- "I might as well just let you have the whole thing."

I wait for Lord Montague to scoff at me, to tell me not to be a dolt, that there's no way he'd throw away all that he's worked for over the past century. But he doesn't. He just stares at me, squinting, considering.

"You're too young," he says, finally.

"Why?" I press. "What happens if you take someone too young? Does their soul go out of their body when you take them, or does it stay? And if it stays, what happens?"

He stares at me in silence for a long moment before finally hissing "I don't know."

But I think I know - at least, I know what I want it to be. That the soul stays, at least partly, meaning that Lord Montague would get trapped in my body, eating it from the inside like - and here I rub the band of my ring with the thumb of my left hand - like a snake devouring its own tail. And what was it Mrs. Craft had said? That it represents self containment - and eternity. And just a glance at the expression of avarice on Lord Montague's face tells me that he's thinking the same thing.

"It would be," he says, reflecting, "an exquisite hell."

It would mean the end of everything he's worked for, yes, but a tempting end. Too tempting to resist for very long.  _And after all, the Grabiners aren't exactly known for their impulse control_ , I think, struggling to stifle the urge to laugh.

I tilt my chin up, letting Lord Montague lick more blood from my face - the upper lip this time, a gesture that feels almost like a kiss.

"Want to find out?" I whisper to him.

He's silent for so long that I find myself holding my breath, waiting for his answer. Finally, he asks, with a suspicious tone, "why would you give yourself up for him when he wouldn't do it for you?"

"Say you'll make the deal with me and I'll tell you," I say.

"He isn't worth it," Lord Montague says, scowling. "I sired him; I raised him. I should know. He's pretentious, pedantic, self-absorbed, self indulgent-"

I gasp at that, and he narrows his eyes until they're mere slits. "What?" he asks.

"I just realized something," I say, looking up at Lord Montague. "Oh God, I've been such an idiot."

Self indulgent - Professor Grabiner hadn't meant me when he'd said it - he'd meant himself. Which means everything I thought he'd meant about me - about how I'd only agreed to go on this trip because of my ridiculous crush - hadn't been directed at me at all. He was the one who couldn't stand to be apart from me. And that means-

"Tell me," snarls Lord Montague.

"Make the deal," I snap back with renewed vehemence, a sudden courage blooming in my chest.

He backs away and stands, glaring. And suddenly I'm frightened that I've gone too far, that he'll laugh in my face and stalk back down to where Professor Grabiner is lying, and snap his fingers for Mr. Lewis. But just as I'm convinced that I've lost, he says "done." And I win.

I stand as well. "Done," I repeat.

"Then tell me why."

And I smile. "I'm not doing it for him at all," I say. "I'm doing it so this all ends now. With me. So you can never murder anyone again."

Slowly, Lord Montague's scowl lifts into a smile. "Imbecile," he says, and then he turns and walks down the stairs to the stone slab once again. For a moment I'm terrified - am I wrong? Is there a loophole I haven't considered? But if there is, there's nothing to be done about it now. I made a deal, and when a magician makes a promise, she risks losing her magic if she breaks her word. I follow my father-in-law, keeping my chin held high as I go.

When he gets to the slab, Lord Montague steps behind it and, with both hands, moves to shove Professor Grabiner off.

"Stop it!" I yell. "Let me do it."

Lord Montague smirks. "Be my guest," he says, and steps back, crossing his arms in front of him.

I try to get Professor Grabiner off of the stone gently, but he's too heavy and too tall for me to get any kind of grip on him without using magic. In the end I have to settle with grasping him by the shoulders and pulling him, trying to cushion his head by dropping to the floor as he falls, and letting his legs flop onto the ground. I wince as he lands, remembering the crack he'd made as he'd slammed into the wall - I hope I haven't hurt him even more.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry!" I whisper, turning back to see if he's woken up - he hasn't, but all the color has drained from his face, leaving it completely white. I press my fingers into his neck and feel a pulse, strong but slow.

"Sorry," I repeat, bringing my face close to his and impetuously kissing one of his eyelids. The skin there is thin and soft under my mouth. "I'm  _really_  sorry. About everything. I shouldn't have said all that stuff today - you were right, I was acting like a kid. And I'm sorry about this, too. You were trying to save me, but if I do this, maybe it'll end. Maybe it'll stop him from killing anyone else." Maybe it will, and maybe it won't, but between this, getting eaten, or getting impregnated to begin the cycle all over again, it's a chance worth taking. I lean down further, pushing my mouth close to Professor Grabiner's ear.

"Listen," I say. "I don't know if you're there right now, but if you are, can you do me a favor? My parents - could you tell them what happened? I mean, not what  _really_ happened, but say I was in an accident or something. Don't let them forget me, okay? I know it's selfish, I know it's probably better for them to forget about me, but I just can't."

Tears sting my eyes and my chest hitches at the thought of my parents - had it only been an hour or so ago that I thought I'd be with them soon? But I can't cry now - I've made my decision.

"You were really brilliant, by the way. And I - uh - I-" I swallow. "I liked being married to you. Even when you were being kind of a jerk, I liked it. I guess I was kind of a jerk too. So-"

"I'm waiting," snaps Lord Montague.

Well. It doesn't matter - I can't think of anything else to say, and Professor Grabiner can't hear me anyway. So I stop, ease him to the ground, and stand again. "I'm ready."

Lord Montague gestures to the stone, and I pull myself onto it, lying back and settling myself down. He stands over me, the greed in his face undisguised.

_I made a deal for this_ ,I remind myself, but not because I'm scared. For some reason, I feel calm, almost exuberant. I keep my eyes on Lord Montague's and smile. And then I say "come in."

My exaltation at having won over Lord Montague lasts for about as long as it takes for his smile to widen into a Cheshire grin. He lifts his hands and begins an incantation - and then suddenly I can't move. My entire body seizes up, and I can't blink, can't breathe. Lord Montague bends his head over me, and suddenly he's out of my view. But I can feel his hands running over me, up and down until he stops, both hands just under my sternum. He presses, lightly at first, and then harder, and suddenly I can feel his fingers plunge through, popping through my skin. The pain is instant and searing, and almost - but not quite - blots out the growing pain in my lungs as they begin to ache for air.

_Oh well_ , I think.  _It'll be a quick death at least_.

But it isn't.


	23. Chapter 23

Slowly - so slowly - Lord Montague's fingers dig deeper into my chest, scrabbling. It feels as though he's squishing the soft organs there between his fingertips, crushing each one bit by bit until they're the consistency of dough. Then he dips his hands in further, using both hands to grip the inside of my ribcage, and starts prising me apart - pulling me in two.

The pain is excruciating, and made worse by the stale burn in my lungs. I try to heave on the slab, trying to do anything that would let me take a breath, but I can't. I can't move at all, can't even flick my eyes down to see what Lord Montague - Isolde Grabiner - is doing.

_Why can't I breathe - it would be all right if I could just breathe-_

But then he digs his fingers in a little deeper, and it's not all right - he has a better grip now, and he's  _pulling me apart_ and I feel something - his face, his mouth? lowering to the torn skin on my chest and opening above it, wide, wider, impossibly wide. I can feel something inside of me tearing away as he does it, agony flooding every molecule in my body.

_Just make it stop just make it stop let me die let me die letmedieLETMEDIE_

And then it stops - just like that, it stops. The sudden sensation of  _not-in-pain_ is a shock, and I lie there, dazed, and still unable to move a muscle.

"There you are!" trills a voice that sounds as though it's coming from a thousand miles away, and right next to my ear. "I don't think much of the decor, but I suppose the form follows the function."

A snarl, just above me - it sounds more like an animal than a man.

"I really wouldn't," says the trilling voice, with an edge of warning to it. "I'm afraid I have you at a bit of a disadvantage. Oh - Hieronymous, what on earth are you doing on the floor? I nearly tripped!" The voice gives a giggle, but though it sounds louder, it also sounds like it's receding, quieting, dissolving into a buzz. My vision starts to go grey on the edges, and I have the sense that I'm starting to float up into the air and sink down through the stone at the same time. The urge to breathe is lessening.

_I'm getting my wish_ , I think, and all I can feel is relief.

But then a flash of pink bursts into view.

"Eliza!" says Professor Potsdam, grinning brightly into my face. "You did  _beautifully_ dear! Don't worry now, you're all right." She makes a gesture with her hand and then suddenly my lungs open up, and I can breathe - which I do, arching my back with the force of it, gasping in air until I start to cough. I clutch at my chest, expecting my fingers to sink into the gaping hole that Lord Montague left, but they touch only solid cloth. There's no hole, and even my hoodie is still intact.

My vision snaps back into focus, and I see Professor Potsdam standing over me one one side of the stone slab, and Lord Montague on the other. Lord Montague is standing stock-still, his jaw open, looking as though he'd unhinged it, like a snake. I nearly start to scream in panic, but Professor Potsdam seems calm, holding her hands in front of her, making passes in the air that might or might not be part of a spell. She has a tight little smile on her face. "I wish it hadn't come to this, Lord Montague, I really don't. But I'm afraid when you're wielding this much magic, things can get a bit unstable." Lord Montague gags, and his entire body starts to vibrate so fast that he starts to blur before my eyes. "You did bring this on yourself, I'm afraid," she says, sounding as though she's lecturing a wayward student.

I watch, horrified, as the vibration going through Lord Montague's body becomes more apparent, to the point where his facial features are no longer discernible, and a strange heat begins to emanate from where he's standing. It builds quickly until I feel as though I'm lying beneath a spotlight. The sheer amount of magical power radiating from Lord Montague is staggering. A strange smell, something like roast pork, begins to waft toward me.

"Oh dear," murmurs Professor Potsdam to herself. "There he goes." There's a sudden, deafening pop and I whirl away from Lord Montague, hiding my face from the sight. But I can feel the spatter of blood hit me as he bursts apart.

The sound and the splatter is so terrifying that I hurl myself from the top of the stone slab onto the ground - landing on Professor Grabiner, who is still lying prone on the floor. I scramble off of him, cursing, and peer into his face. His eyes are open - only halfway, but it's something.

"Professor?" I ask tentatively, "are you okay?"

He doesn't answer - his eyes seem vague and unfocused, so I wave a hand in front of him - although I don't have any idea whether that's helpful. He blinks, which I take as a good sign. "Hi," I say.

He squints, blinks again, and then raises one hand to touch my face. He turns his hand to examine the fingertips - which I notice are now crimson with Lord Montague's rapidly clotting blood.

"Oh!" I say. "It's okay, it's not mine - at least not most of it. Um..." I look over my shoulder, but can't see anything over the stone slab beside us. "You should probably know that Professor Potsdam's over there, and I think she might have just exploded your father. I mean your aunt. Great-great-great aunt."

Professor Grabiner still doesn't say anything, but he seems able to focus on my face now. "So," I continue, trying to still the rapidly mounting anxiety that's brimming in my chest, "now might be a good time to get up and figure out whether she's going to kill us too, because I'm completely tapped out."

Professor Grabiner just blinks at me again. It doesn't seem as though he can get up, so I raise myself to venture a peek over the stone slab. Professor Potsdam is standing just beyond it now, in front of what looks like a large, dark smear on the floor. I don't want to see what's beyond, but before I can duck behind the stone again, Professor Potsdam turns and sees me.

"Ah, feeling better?" she asks, with a bright smile. She turns, holding her arms out before her. It looks like she's wearing a pair of elbow-length opera gloves that just happen to be deep red - and liquid.

"Regrettable, very regrettable," she says, and starts cleaning her hands and arms with a spell that sloughs the blood off of her skin and onto the floor, managing to avoid her diaphanous pink robes. "Unfortunately when you lose control of a spell that powerful, the consequences are rather dire."

"Professor?" I say, half turning to where Professor Grabiner is lying, the panic creeping into my voice.

"Oh, is Hieronymous still there?" Professor Potsdam flicks the last of the blood away and steps toward me. I shrink back, crouching behind the stone again.

Professor Grabiner's managed to get on his elbows, but something seems wrong - he can't seem to raise himself fully, and he winces every time he moves.

"I think we might need to go," I squeak, still inching backwards, but Professor Grabiner doesn't seem to register that I'm speaking to him.

"Ah, Hieronymous, are you all right?" says Professor Potsdam, stepping around the stone to where we're sitting.

I reach Profesor Grabiner then, and clutch at his forearm. "Don't!" I shout at her, trying to sound intimidating, but succeeding only in sounding scared.

"What's the matter, chick? It's all right, he's gone now."

"He said he'd been bribing her the whole time!" I hiss to Professor Grabiner. "That she'd been telling him what you were doing, and that she'd planned for us to be married so you'd have a wife when he-"

"Well of course I had to make him think that!" says Professor Potsdam with a patient smile. "He wouldn't have let me in his house, otherwise, and then where would we be?"

"Oh..." I start, considering the possibility that Professor Potsdam might not be trying to kill me after all. She did save me from getting eaten by Lord Montague. But the way she'd done it, combined with her calm, cheerful demeanor are so thoroughly chilling that I don't know what to believe.

"You didn't think I'd just stand back and let you get eaten, did you now?" says Professor Potsdam.

" _What_?" snaps Professor Grabiner, and both Professor Potsdam and I start, turning to look at him. He, in turn, is staring at me - his expression changed from befuddled to furious.

I slowly let go of Professor Grabiner's arm, trying to shrink back against the stone slab next to me, but there isn't much space for me to get anywhere. "Um," I start, and glance at Professor Potsdam. She gives me an encouraging smile.

"Well," I say, "I sort of offered Lord Montague my body in exchange for yours, because since I'm young, he'd get trapped in it trying to eat my soul - I think. And he took me up on it." Even as I say it, I'm aware of how ridiculous the whole thing sounds. Professor Grabiner, while still looking furious, takes on an incredulous expression, as though I were trying to speak to him in ancient Egyptian.

"It worked perfectly!" bubbles Professor Potsdam. "He always warded himself so carefully - I knew I'd have to do something to make him let down his guard. And Eliza got him to open himself right up!" She beams at me. "It really was very well done, gosling!"

Professor Grabiner seems to grasp this, and he turns to Professor Potsam, livid.

"You had Eliza sacrifice herself," he says slowly, "so you could get a clear  _shot_?" He drops his voice to a whisper at the last word, but there's no mistaking the very dangerous tone in his voice.

Professor Potsdam gives a blithe wave of her hand. "She was never in any real danger, Hieronymous," she says.

Based on the look Professor Grabiner gives Professor Potsdam at that, I think that if he could get up, he'd probably try going for her throat. I consider trying to clutch at Professor Grabiner's arm again, to try to keep him from doing something rash, but as I watch, he closes his eyes and takes a breath, getting his anger under control. Finally, he opens his eyes again to glare up at Professor Potsdam, and says - so quietly, it's barely audible - "I quit."

"Oh, yes dear, I thought you might," says Professor Potsdam, unperturbed. "You seem to have a lot to get on with here."

Professor Grabiner continues to stare at Professor Potsdam, looking as though he's going to say something scathing, but then he shuts his mouth and turns to me, instead. "Eliza," he says, in a forcibly calm tone, "are you all right?"

"Yeah," I say, hesitant. I probably feel a lot better than he does right now, but I decide not to say so.

"I think we ought to go now, do you?"

"Oh, yes,  _please_ ," I respond, aware of how desperate I sound but not caring. I want to get out of this cottage-turned-abattoir, and I want to do it immediately.

"Hieronymous," says Professor Potsdam, not sounding quite as cheerful as she had a minute ago. "You know full well you're not in any condition to pass through the Gate, and neither is Eliza. You both need to rest."

"I don't want to stay here!" I say, looking from Professor Potsdam to Professor Grabiner, and starting to panic again. My breath starts coming in short gasps - I can't seem to slow it down.

"Of course you don't, kit!" coos Professor Potsdam. Her voice is soothing, but suddenly, all I can see when I look at her is the sight of her arms coated in Lord Montague's blood. "I'll just heal Hieronymous up, it won't take a minute, and then-"

"You'll do nothing of the kind," says Professor Grabiner evenly, speaking to Professor Potsdam but looking at me.

"Well at least let me-" starts Professor Potsdam in a slightly sharper tone, but Professor Grabiner interrupts her.

" _Don't_ touch her," he says, still looking at me. And then, more gently, he says "Eliza?"

He doesn't look good at all, his face is chalky and there's strain in his voice. As I look back at him I feel my chest heave, trying to breathe, but I can't get enough air.

"We're going now," says Professor Grabiner. "Can you take my arm, please?"

Too polite-there's no reason for politeness I think, and start to laugh, but that just makes breathing all the more difficult. I grasp Professor Grabiner's forearm tightly, with both hands.

"I really wouldn't," I hear Professor Potsdam say, but then her voice is gone. The sensation of being sucked, insides-first, through the eye of a needle returns but this time, it's much more painful, hitting me in the chest where Lord Montague had been attempting to suck out my soul only a few minutes before. It could be an eternity - or a split second - before I'm once again spilled onto a hard, flat surface, coming up retching.

There's nothing in my stomach to come up except bile, and that's what comes out of me, in a thin bitter stream until I think I'm going to choke. I manage to get onto my knees and elbows, stomach clenching, until I finally sputter and stop heaving. I stay still, gulping in air for a minute before I can open my eyes.

The space around me seems to be spinning, lit by a yellow glow on which I can't seem to focus my eyes. I'm inches away from a smooth, square black post on my right, which I clutch for balance. And on my left is Professor Grabiner, lying still on the floor. His eyes are closed, and skin is a dull, ashen grey.

"Professor?" I ask, but he doesn't react. I pull myself to where he's lying and nudge his shoulder, then shake it. "Professor?" Still no response - he's out cold, again. Maybe we should have listened to Professor Potsdam after all, I consider, but it's too late now. A thought swims to the surface from the murky depths in my head - I need to try to wake him up somehow - he could have a concussion or something. The only thing I can think of is to try to get some water, but when I try to stand, my vision tunnels, my knees give way, and I fall back onto the floor again.

"Okay," I say, "Water's not happening right now. So you'd better not be concussed or anything. Because..." It takes me a moment to remember why. "Because you can die. I think."

I'm vaguely aware that my head is lying in a puddle of something wet that smells like the effluvium I've just expelled from my stomach, but somehow that doesn't seem to matter very much. At least I'm on the floor. I love the floor. I just wish it would hold still so I can keep a grip on it.

"You'd better not die," I continue. "If you die, I'm going to figure out how to bring you back to life just so I can kill you again. After all that with your father, what a stupid way to go."

I have no idea whether I'm actually saying all this out loud or not - my mouth seems to be moving, but all I can hear is a monotonous drone that's pulsing in volume. I can't see anything through the black that's crowded around my peripheral vision, but then, that might be because my eyes are closed. I can't tell.

It might be possible to try to fight my way back to the surface, but there doesn't seem to be a point. Instead I let myself sink further into the black, thinking  _don't die_ once more before I cease to think at all.

And that's all I remember before being awoken by the screaming.


	24. Chapter 24

The sound is so loud, close and high-pitched that I'm jolted out of my unconscious state, nearly hitting my head on the edge of the piano next to which I'd been lying. I'd been on my stomach on the floor, and I whirl around to the source of the scream.

It's a young woman standing in the partially-open doorway. She's just a few years older than me, I think, in a trim black uniform with a look of horror on her face. When she sees me, her eyes widen even further, and she screams again, and bolts. I hear her shouting "Mrs. Barton! Mrs. Barton!" all the way down the hall.

I stare at the now-empty doorway for a moment. I'm in the music room in Yeavering Hall. The yellow lamp is still shining in one corner, but the windows on the other side of the room are now letting in a stream of sunlight-it must be morning. Or maybe it's afternoon.

I feel very strange. My throat burns, and my stomach feels hollow. The back of my head aches, as does my nose. There's a sensation of something dried on my face, too. I lift one of my hands to my chin, and a shower of rust-colored flakes fall to the floor. Blood. Dried blood.

And then I remember, as fast as a slap, everything that happened. Lord Montague-and Professor Potsdam-and Professor Grabiner.

I lurch back to where he's still lying on the floor, and before I have time to think about what I'm doing, fling two healing spells at him in rapid succession. It's only after this that I realize that I must have rested enough to have gotten my magic back. The realization makes up for all the filthy skin, sore throats, and upset stomachs on earth.

I crawl closer to Professor Grabiner, put my hands on his chest, and take my time with the third healing spell, closing my eyes and concentrating to ensure it's as effective as I can make it. When I finish and open my eyes again, the color has already returned to Professor Grabiner's face, and he's blinking, waking up. I cover my mouth with both hands, huffing out a huge breath in relief. "You're not dead!" I say.

Professor Grabiner sits up slowly, putting one hand to his head. "Professor?" I ask, smile dropping. And then I remember - I can't call him Professor anymore - he's quit his job. "Uh - Hieronymous?"

"Oh,  _sir_!" says a voice from behind me, and I turn to see Mrs. Barton framed in the doorway, hand to her mouth and gaping at Hieronymous. When she catches sight of me, both her hand and jaw drop, and her eyes bulge nearly out of her head. Well it figures - I'm coated in blood, and my hair seems to be stiff with dried vomit. I must look like a refugee from a murder scene. And in a way, I suppose that's just what I am.

"Sir?" Mrs. Barton asks, tentatively, eyes still on me.

Hieronymous stares at her, breathing once, then twice. Then, instantly, he gives Mrs. Barton a courteous smile - the same abrupt change in expression that I saw his father make just yesterday morning. The effect is disconcerting.

"Good morning Mrs. Barton," says Hieronymous, "is everything all right?"

Is it morning? I glance from Hieronymous to Mrs. Barton, and then back again.

"Everyone's gone!" Mrs. Barton blurts. "We've been searching the whole house since dawn, and your father - all of his guests-" She ends in a despairing squeak.

Hieronymous's feigned smile drops back to his familiar frown as she says this, and I feel my shoulders relax.

"What happened?" presses Mrs. Barton. "Where is everyone? Are they-" she cuts off, still staring at me, dread in her face.

I have no idea what to do - even my hoodie is too encrusted with blood to try to wipe my face off. I don't know what to say, either. I open my mouth, but all I can think is _he's quit his job - he's not coming back_.

"Fifteen minutes," says Prof - Hieronymous - and both Mrs. Barton and I turn to stare at him. "I need fifteen minutes," he repeats, "and I need you to assemble the staff downstairs somewhere, any room that can fit them all. And I do mean all of them, every single person who's here. Do you follow?"

He's in lecture-mode, and Mrs. Barton blinks several times before stammering out "y - yes, sir."

"Then  _go_ ," he says, and after giving me a final, terrified look, Mrs. Barton goes.

"Eliza," he says after she's trotted down the hall, "I think my knee-" he shifts his right leg, wincing. "Can you manage?"

"Oh - right," I say after a moment, and shift myself so I can put my hands on his knee and mutter another healing spell. It takes another two before he can move his leg again, but when I finish he looks much better. He lets out a long breath, eyes closed, before turning to me and saying "Tell me."

So I tell him - everything that had happened to me since I'd run from him after fighting about Mrs. Craft. He listens, silent and intent. He doesn't change his expression at all - except that when I get to his father's admission of eating Violet's soul, his mouth twitches once. I skip over the part about Lord Montague leaving Violet's photograph for me to find, though. By the time I get to Professor Potsdam's sudden appearance, I'm stuttering over the words, throat thick with unshed tears.

"And then you woke up and we came back but I guess it we should have rested first," I conclude. "But-" I cut off as a sob hitches its way up my chest, and I struggle to quell it, furiously wiping my nose on my blood-encrusted sleeve, ignoring the throb that surfaces at the slightest pressure. "I promised Mrs. Craft I'd go back for her and I didn't. I was too scared. I-" I can't continue, and now the sack of pebbles in me bursts and I do start to cry, ashamed of my cowardice and thoughtlessness.

And then, even though I'm covered in dried blood, snot and vomit, even though I'm bawling like a child, and even though I know that I must smell terrible, Hieronymous puts his arms around me and draws me into him, holding me close against his chest. He doesn't tell me that it's all right, or that I'm brave, or that it isn't my fault. He doesn't say anything. He's just there.

It's just when I've gotten the sobs under control, and when I'm trying to sniff the slime back into my still-throbbing nose, that Mrs. Barton reappears in the doorframe. Close on her heels and peering over her shoulder is Mr. Lewis.

I'm so beyond fear that I just stare at Mr. Lewis over Hieronymous' shoulder until he feels me stiffen and looks to the doorway himself. At the sight of his face, Mr. Lewis's expression takes on a look of disgust. He starts spitting out a string of expletives, each more filthy than the next, until Hieronymous says "shut up." And to my astonishment, Mr. Lewis does exactly that - though his face turns purple around his clenched mouth.

Hieronymous extracts himself from me with a little effort, and I let him go with reluctance. He gives my shoulder a slight, but reassuring squeeze before he stands - wobbling slightly, but steady after a moment.

"Would you," he starts, addressing Mrs. Barton, "please take Eliza back to her room? And then come right back and join the rest of the staff."

Mrs. Barton stares for a moment before nodding.

"As for you," Hieronymous continues, looking at Mr. Lewis, his voice taking on a dangerous tone, "you can return to your room and stay there until I decide what I'm going to do with you."

Mr. Lewis pauses for a moment and then, after giving me a glance of pure loathing, withdraws.

Hieronymous looks back to me and extends his hand. I take it, and with some effort, manage to get myself standing. But he jerks his hand out of mine almost immediately, and begins to walk out of the room, past Mrs. Barton.

"Wait!" I say, stumbling forward. He stops in the doorway, frowning. I manage to stop myself from falling about a foot away from where he's standing, holding myself as still as I can.

"Don't make them forget her, okay?" I ask, whispering even though I know that Mrs. Barton can hear me. "Mrs. Craft, I mean. She doesn't deserve it, she was  _good_ , I mean-" and I have to stop myself before I start to cry again, pressing one hand to my mouth. "Everyone should remember her, she was-" I try, but have to stop again. "Please," is the last thing I'm able to say.

He stays, frowning at me for a minute, before he sighs, reaches out and runs the tips of his fingers dowN my filthy, tear-streaked cheek.

"I'll see what I can do," he says. And then he turns, and he's gone down the hall toward the stairs.

"It's all right dear," says Mrs. Barton, putting an arm around my shoulders. "Everything's going to be all right." And I let her lead me away, up the hall and up the staircase to my Impossible Room, where she leaves me with an apologetic smile. There's sun again - the clouds have gone.

I take a shower, and then a bath, and then another shower, until I'm sure that I've scrubbed the last of the blood from my skin. By the time I step out of the bathroom, one towel wrapped around my body and one around my hair, the noon sun is streaming through the windows. The light gives the strange sensation that the room has knocked itself sideways. It gives me vertigo, and I have to clutch one of the posts of the bed to maneuver myself into it. I don't bother unwrapping the towels from my hair and body, even though they're wet.

I lie there on the coverlet, keeping my eyes on on the light of the sun, past the point of where it hurts. I'm just grateful for its blazing light, and the illusion of safety it gives. I don't remember when I drop off to sleep, and I don't remember the dreams. But I do remember that I wake up from them with a jerk, on the verge of screaming.

It takes me a while to remember where I am, and by the time I put myself together, the light in the windows is growing dim again. The room is oddly clean - there's no overturned tray, no scorch marks on the wall. I'm dressed in my pajamas instead of the towels in which I'd fallen asleep.

My jeans, t-shirt and hoodie have disappeared from the floor, so I locate my suitcase - which is sitting closed in one corner - and pick out the outfit I'd worn yesterday. I brush my hair in the bathroom, but don't bother with makeup. I don't need to - the bruises that had been on my cheeks have disappeared. The ache in my nose and on the back of my head have vanished, too.

When I venture downstairs, I find a huddle of staff sitting red-eyed in the large drawing room. Everyone stops speaking and turns to stare at me as I open the door, and Mrs. Barton comes rushing over. "Oh, Miss Moon," she says, "you're up - how are you feeling?"

"I-" I start, wondering why something seems wrong.

"Sit, sit!" she says, and I let her hustle me into a chair. "Are you dizzy?"

Should I be? I'm a little dazed from sleeping so long during the day, but that's about it. The men and women who comprise the staff are staring at me curiously, and I blink at them a few times. One of the younger women - possibly the one who'd run screaming from me this morning - turns to the man she was talking to and says, in a theatrical whisper, "does she even know?"

I look back at Mrs. Barton, who purses her lips at me. "Maybe we ought to take a walk," she says.

"Okay," I say, and get back up to follow her out of the room.

Mrs. Barton leads me to the morning room with the spindly furniture, where Mrs. Craft had read my cards just yesterday morning. The room is cold and getting colder as the light in the sky fades, and I perch on the edge of a sofa, shivering a little.

"I'm so sorry to be the one to tell you this, Miss Moon," says Mrs. Barton, and then she tells me. About the faulty furnace in the south wing that had filled the guest bedrooms in the second floor hallway with carbon monoxide for the past week. About the maid who, wondering that none of the guests had woken up by eight this morning, had knocked to check on first one door and then the other, to no answer. About her finding not only all of the guests, but also Lord Montague himself, in their beds - dead, having finally succumbed to the buildup of gas in their rooms.

"That's-" I blurt, and then have to stop myself before saying  _brilliant_. "Awful," I finish, and Mrs. Barton gives me a concerned look.

"We were quite worried about you, Miss Moon, you slept for so long today. We had a doctor in with the inspectors and she said you'd be all right, but still, you just wouldn't wake up... we thought you'd been poisoned as well."

I certainly hadn't woken up, and I begin to wonder if I hadn't been under a spell for most of the day.

"We had to move you up to the third floor room to get you away from the pipes," Mrs. Barton continues, and I have to stop myself from protesting that I'd been staying on the third floor the entire time. "It's just a good thing the inspectors said we didn't have to evacuate the whole house. Lord Montague was terribly upset."

"He - what?" I ask, a flash of panic shooting through me.

"Your cousin, Hieronymous," explains Mrs. Barton in a soothing sort of voice. "He's Lord Montague now that his father's passed on." She grimaces at the shocked expression on my face. "You poor, poor thing - your first visit to England to see your extended family and this happens? I can't tell you how sorry I am." She pats my shoulder.

"My  _cousin_?" I sputter. Mrs. Barton's eyebrows knit, so I hurriedly add "uh - can I see him?"

"Oh - no, Miss Moon, I think he's still talking with the inspectors in the study - better not bother them. Why don't we get you some dinner, do you think you can eat some soup?"

I'm about to say no, but my stomach rumbles at the very thought of food. Mrs. Barton gives me a knowing smile, and bustles off.

I let Mrs. Barton and the rest of the staff fuss over me for the rest of the night, half enjoying the cosseting, and half embarrassed by it. Hieronymous doesn't emerge from the study, and I keep feeling skittish that Mr. Lewis will pop out from behind a sofa or through a door. When I ask where Mr. Lewis is, or if anyone has seen him, all I receive in return are nervous, vague smiles, and no indication that they even remember such a person as Mr. Lewis at all. I begin to wonder at the sheer amount of white magic Hironymous has used today, considering his aversion to the subject.

By the time I finish my dinner - half of which I have to push away - I'm so tired I can barely stand, despite having slept for most of the day. I refuse offers of pudding and warm milk, and escape upstairs.

As I cross the second floor hallway, I find myself standing in front of Mrs. Craft's bedroom door filled with a morbid curiosity. After checking that no one has followed me, I twist the knob. Locked - but then, that isn't much of a barrier to me. A quick spell, and it opens, and I enter.

All of Mrs. Craft's things are neatly arranged, the bed made, so that it looks like the room of someone who'd tidied up in preparation of going on a long journey, expecting to return and find everything in its place. A pair of reading glasses sit, upside down, on the bedside table, and next to them is a wooden box - the one she used to store her cards.

Without thinking much about it, I step forward and slide the box from the table into my palm. It has a pleasant heft to it, and the smooth wood feels good - feels  _right_  - in my hand. I consider the box for a moment, and then turn and leave the room to climb the stairs and go to bed, taking it with me.

_After all, it isn't stealing if she's dead_ , I think to myself as I'm lying in bed, drifting.  _It's not so selfish to want to keep a piece of her_.

After that, everything happens very quickly.

The days are full of visitors - first inspectors and policemen and women, and the lawyers - solicitors, I mean - Mr. Hoffman and his trainee, Ms. Sloane. After a day and a half, the police depart, but they're replaced by the families, which are worse. They come to retrieve the bodies from the mortuary at the nearby hospital, and they come to Yeavering Hall to cry or to rage, to ask  _why_  or  _how_.

Through all of this, Hieronymous holds the household together. He'd fetched each of the guests' cadavers from the Otherworld, engineered the ostensible circumstances of their deaths, memory-spelled the entire staff, the police, the inspectors and the coroner, and is now engaging in what he cynically calls "charming the lawsuits out of the grieving relatives." It's grueling work, particularly the white magic - after such a long time of pointedly not using that branch of magic, it's similar to exercising a muscle that's lain dormant, or so he intimates when I can get him to talk about it.

The effort causes him to take on a rather drawn, haggard look which has the unintended benefit of giving him an air of grief that he might not have been able to accomplish on his own. The police, solicitors and relatives look at him and see a son devastated over the loss of his father - but all he really is is exhausted. He spends most of what little free time he has draping his long frame over random sofas or chairs and dozing off. I can tell that this drives Mrs. Barton to distraction in her concern for the state of the furniture, but she can't protest, after all, now all of the furniture - not to mention the rest of the house and its contents - is his.

My demotion from wife to distant cousin has its own benefits. I only have to speak to the police briefly about what I remember about the accident (nothing), no one asks awkward questions about the impropriety of a man in his thirties being married to a teenager, and I can avoid meeting the grieving families of the dead guests. Instead, I spend most of the days either turning over the cards I'd taken from Mrs. Craft's room, or reading books from the magical library. I can't bring myself to stay in the library itself, so I pick promising looking books and take them to my Impossible Room or outside into the nicely manicured garden at the back of the house.

I see Hieronymous every night at dinner - not in the large dining room, which seems cavernous without the crowd of people that had once filled it - but in a disused parlor on the first floor. It's always just the two of us - although the solicitors and the families stay for the day, they're never invited to eat with us. We talk about anything except the events of the past week. The topic mainly consists of the books I've been reading during the day.

Dinners have good moments and bad moments. The good moments are when I can catch his attention with a bit of something I've read, and we can actually converse as though the day hadn't been spent under the shadow of Lord Montague's - well, the former Lord Montague's - murders.

The best day is when I find a slim, brown leather volume with a tiny but intricate dragon worked on the spine in gilt. There isn't any title, just another, larger dragon on the front and back covers. On perusal, the book turns out to be a self-published work by an unnamed member of the Grabiner family - one of the "spares," apparently - written during the mid-19th century. The narration is meandering and rather unreliable, but the main thesis of the work is the idea that there were once, and possibly still are a breed of miniature dragons on a small island in the Indian Ocean. The author is rather vague on the proof, which seems to hinge on the unusual flora on the island - a particular type of tree that exudes red sap called "dragon's blood," and in the branches of which the author insists the dragons make their nests. Despite the dubious thesis, the passion that the author has for his idea fascinates me, and I end up devouring the whole book in an afternoon.

When I mention the book to Hieronymous at dinner, his eyes light up in a way I've never seen them do before. "Socotra?" he says, "you found that book?"

"Socotra?" I repeat.

"The island. It's called Socotra, off the coast of Yemen. I spent two months when I was twelve absolutely obsessed to go there after I read that book. Practically slept with the atlas. I had an entire plan of how I was going to slip my tutors' watch, sign on to a merchant ship, and get there by the Suez Canal so I could find a dragon." He tilts his head. "I can't remember why, but for some reason the Suez Canal was terribly important to the plan."

I can't help the grin that slowly spreads across my face. "How did it go?" I ask.

"It didn't," he says, grimacing. "The tutors were a bit too much for me, and I didn't even make it out of the house. Still, it'd be interesting to go someday."

"I'd like to see it too," I admit. "Do the trees really bleed red?"

"Apparently," he says. "And they're shaped like giant umbrellas." He pauses a moment, and then says "Maybe we should go. After all this-" he waves his hand absently "is finished with."

I flush with pleasure at the idea, and we spend the rest of the dinner discussing the remote island and its contents.

The bad moments are when I can't catch Hieronymous' attention, and he spends dinner distracted and staring into space, ruminating over something I can't determine. If I say something or ask him a question, he'll respond briefly, but trail off without really saying anything. I stop trying after a while, and let him snap out of it on his own. Some nights he does, and some nights he doesn't; when he doesn't I'm left to eat my own dinner in silence.

There's one thing that Hieronymous doesn't do as the days wear on, and that's lose his temper at anyone. He's unerringly patient with Mrs. Barton and the rest of the staff, and very calm and even-keeled with me, despite his apparent exhaustion. Although I have to admit that this is an improvement in his personality, I find myself thinking that I'd rather have a fully engaged but testy Hieronymous instead of this withdrawn one.

By the fifth day, it begins to feel like a routine. As I'm getting myself dressed after my shower, I begin to wonder how long I should stay. I haven't been giving much thought to going home, or back to school - back with Professor Potsdam, who I can't think of without picturing her arms dripping with Lord Montague's blood.

_Maybe I could stay here_ , I think. It's like my daydream from that Wednesday afternoon. Staying here, with him... but I hadn't imagined the complications that would arise, what with all the grieving visitors and Hieronymous's oddly detached air. And then, there are my parents - are they wondering where I am, now that I've been away for a week and a half? Or had whatever spell Professor Potsdam put on them continue, so that they still think I'm safe at a school symposium? If the spell holds, maybe I can stay here, and just let myself pass out of their memory. Only for a little while, of course. But should I?

I'm interrupted as I'm brushing my teeth by a knock at the door. I hurriedly spit my mouthful of foam into the sink, wiping my mouth as I run to answer. It's the young maid who'd found Hieronymous and me in the music room on Friday morning. She gives me a slight smile, and says "Pardon me, Miss Moon, but I was asked to give you this." She hands me a folded up piece of paper, nods once, and leaves.

I close the door, unfolding the paper with one hand - I'd kept my still-foamy toothbrush in the other, how embarrassing. But halfway back to the bathroom to put it away, I stop as I realize what's been written on the paper - in, of all things, bright pink ink.

_We need to talk, piglet! Why don't you meet me in the garden for tea at four?_

_P.P._


	25. Chapter 25

By the time four-o'clock rolls around, I'm in a state of anxiety that's near panic. I haven't been able to concentrate on my latest book at all, and I'm alternating between fear and impatience. I vascillate between racing to the garden and not showing up at all. In the end, my curiosity about what Professor Potsdam might have to say overwhelms my remembered fear.

When I walk into the garden, Professor Potsdam is there, at ease before a small table set with tea things. There's no one else in sight, so I have no idea who's set the table - a member of the staff, or Professor Potsdam through a spell.

"Ah, Lady Montague," she says as I approach, "how are you feeling?"

"I'm all right," I say warily as I sit. It's both a balm and a sting to be called Lady Montague, now that I've been demoted to cousin Eliza. I hadn't wanted Professor Potsdam to be the first one to call me by my new title, but I guess that can't be helped now.

"And how is Hieronymous?" she asks.

"Holding up," I say, which is about as positively as I can put it. "Does he know you're here?"

"I doubt it," she says with a giggle. "You won't tell him, will you? He's a little upset."

"A little," I agree, thinking what an understatement that is.

"Oh, well, it's all right. He'll come around eventually, you know, he always does."

"I think this one might take a while," I say. Hieronymous hasn't mentioned Professor Potsdam since the morning we arrived in the music room at Yeavering Hall, and I haven't dared bring her up in conversation.

"Oh, I have time," she tells me with a wink. "Tea?"

"Thanks," I say, and she pours me a cup. "Have you been - you know -  _there_  this whole time?" I ask, not wanting to mention the cottage - not wanting to feel its name in my mouth.

"Oh no," she says. "I've been in London putting a good word in for Hieronymous with the UK's Council. They weren't exactly inclined to believe that such a prominent magician as the late Lord Montague would suddenly go on a killing spree, but I've managed to provide enough evidence to ensure they won't give Hieronymous any trouble about it."

I'm a little taken aback by Professor Potsdam's reference to the Council - whoever they are. I've been so preoccupied by the police inspectors and the deceased guests' families that I hadn't even thought of Hieronymous being in trouble with the magical authorities. Still, it seems that Professor Potsdam has already taken care of the situation, for which I'm suddenly grateful.

"What did you want to talk to me about?" I ask.

"I'm leaving for Iris this evening," says Professor Potsdam, settling back into her chair with her cup. "And I wanted to know whether you'd be coming back, or staying here."

I stare at her, wondering how she could know that I'd been pondering that very question only this morning.

"It's all right if you haven't decided," she continues, "but I will need to know before the school year begins, and sooner is usually better."

"I don't even know if he'll let me stay," I prevaricate. Professor Potsdam waves her hand at me.

"Oh nonsense, if he didn't want you to stay, he'd've kicked you out by now."

"I guess," I say grudgingly, though I know she has a point. And then, there was the conversation about Socotra. Much as I've been trying to tell myself that it was just an idle suggestion that won't come to anything, the mere fact that Hieronymous would even propose taking a trip together is rather enticing.

"And you two do make a lovely couple," Professor Potsdam is saying. "It really couldn't have worked out better if I'd planned it."

"I thought you had planned it," I say.

"Maybe a little," she says, and sips her tea.

"But why? I ask.

"Well, I told you dear," she says, "I needed someone to open Lord Montague up. I wouldn't have been able to disrupt his spell if he hadn't been trying to eat whoever he was trying to take. She'd have to be young - he didn't find older souls very appetizing - attached to Hieronymous in an official way so that he'd target her, clever enough to determine Lord Montague's intent and how to foil it, and fond enough of Hieronymous to give herself up to save him."

"So you picked me?"

"Oh no. I picked Minnie Cochran."

"What?" I ask, stunned.

"Well she's just Hieronymous' type, don't you think? Very much the academic star, and beautiful too - you know," she drops her voice to a conspiratorial whisper. "The hair."

"Oh," is all I can say. Of course - although Minnie is smaller and slimmer than Violet had been, they both share one similar trait - the huge mane of wavy, chestnut hair. I don't know why I hadn't made that connection before.

"But," Professor Potsdam says, "she got a bit involved with problems of her own over the course of the year, and I'm afraid Hieronymous wasn't very impressed, so I had to make do with what was available."

"Meaning me." I feel as though Professor Potsdam has just twisted the knife that the late Lord Montague had planted in my heart.

"Yes, but don't look so upset, he's the one who chose you, really. That's why I did the spell just before the winter break you know - to find out who he'd think of, if it wasn't Minnie."

I remember that - the spell she'd done that let the students know if someone they cared about was thinking of them. I hadn't thought of another student, I'd thought of Hieronymous, and felt the tiniest flicker of something in return. That was enough, it seems, to set this entire series of events in motion.

"And it did work out after all," continues Professor Potsdam. "Lord Montague is gone, and here you two are." She beams.

"And how long had you been planning this?" I ask.

"Oh, says Professor Potsdam with another wave, "as soon as ever I met Lord Montague. I knew what he was the instant I laid eyes on him, and knew I'd have to try to stop him when he finally decided to take Hieronymous in earnest. It took me years to decide what to do and how to do it."

"Then," I say through clenched teeth, "why didn't you save them? Mrs. Craft and the rest?"

Professor Potsdam gives me a stern look that, after a moment, softens into an expression of sadness. "Would you believe me if I said I tried?" she says.

"No." I reply.

She sighs and puts down her teacup. "I'm sure you've noticed that I'm terribly clever, Eliza, but I'm not infallible. And I'm afraid I made the same mistake Hieronymous did - I dismissed Lord Montague's guests as perfectly ordinary people with no purpose to him save to give him the sort of unthinking adulation he seemed to crave. In fact, I was possibly a little too clever. I assumed he was going to use a very esoteric bit of white magic to suck the amount of energy he needed for his spell from the fabric of the Otherworld. By the time I realized what he was going to do with his guests - a vulgar spell, no artistry to it - it had already been done, and there was nothing I could do."

I stare at her, uncertain. I'm so used to seeing Professor Potsdam as absolutely in control, the omniscient, omnipotent ruler of Iris Academy, that it's jarring to think of her making a mistake. Could it really be true that she hadn't anticipated Lord Montague's murders?

"Then again," she continues, "if I had managed to save them, I would have tipped my hand a bit too early, and then where would we be? He wouldn't have been able to take Hieronymous, but I wouldn't have been able to stop him for good. He'd be in hiding somewhere, biding what time he has until the next chance came - with an eye on both of you. Not a very nice prospect."

"But it was so many people," I say, despairing. Even the prospect of Lord Montague lying in wait somewhere isn't enough for me to think that the deaths of all those people could be worth it.

"I know, dear, I know," says Professor Potsdam. "But in the end, I suppose it comes down to the same choice that you and Hieronymous made - what to sacrifice, and what to save."

"That's different!" I shout at her, outraged. "It's different when it's just your own life!"

Professor Potsdam smiles at me then, a smile imbued with regret and with pity. As I watch her, waiting for an answer, I realize that sitting here in this garden, reclining with flowers and plants blooming around her, she looks almost exactly like the woman on the last card that Mrs. Craft turned over for me on the last day I'd seen her alive.

"Oh chick," says Professor Potsdam. "What on earth made you think you were only gambling with your own life?"

The implication of this statement bubbles in my head, and I push it back down, unable to grapple with it now. I find that I'm pressing my hand to my stomach, to the spot just under my sternum where Lord Montague had attempted to tear me in two. And I ask the question I've been waiting to ask Professor Potsdam since she appeared in the strange auditorium at Revane Cottage. "What are you?"

She doesn't stall the way Lord Montague had done when I'd asked him the same question, just fixes me with a steady gaze, taking her time in providing an answer. "I'm something that's trying to bring a little good into this world," she says, finally. "By whatever means necessary."

It's not exactly an answer, but strangely I feel satisfied with it. "Thank you," I say, and stand, leaving my cup of tea half finished.

"Do let me know about school as soon as you can, my little spring bud!" Professor Potsdam says, with her usual verve.

I walk back to the house, a confusion of thoughts crowding my head, trying to keep my feet firm and steady as I go.

The next afternoon is when Mrs. Craft's family is due to arrive at the house, and for them, I insist on being there when they arrive. I wait for them in the foyer, carrying my handbag. In it is the small wooden box of cards that I'd taken from Mrs. Craft's room. I have the vague idea that I could ask the family if I could keep them, maybe, though I don't know how I'd go about doing that in a way that doesn't sound completely callous. Part of me wonders if I could just "accidentally" forget to say anything, and let them leave the box with me.

The family consists of Mrs. Craft's oldest son - the younger lives abroad - his wife, and their daughter. The husband and wife are frowning up at the interior of the house with its rich furnishings and air of opulence, and give Hieronymous - who is still looking exhausted - hard looks as he exchanges clipped greetings with them. The daughter is a little too old to be a girl, but too young to be a teenager. I find myself staring at her with curiosity.

She has a plump torso but gangly arms and legs which seem to indicate that she'll grow much taller in the next few years. The dress she's wearing is too short at the wrists and too tight around the middle, and she keeps tugging at in in a desultory way. It also looks too warm for the August weather - probably it's her only black dress, chosen in a hurry. Although her face is round with lingering baby fat, I can still see the outline of the square, strong jaw she shares - shared - with her grandmother.

Hieronymous looks startled when, after finishing greeting Mr. Craft and his wife, he sees the daughter standing behind them. Mrs. Craft sees this and her expression softens. She offers a rather sheepish smile. "So sorry," she says. "Tabby and her Gran were quite close and she wanted to come up with us, but..." she trails off, then turns to address her daughter. "We need to discuss a few things with Lord Montague so..." She looks around, a bit lost, hoping maybe for a convenient place to have her daughter wait. I can understand that she doesn't want her daughter in the room when they get into the whys and the hows of Mrs. Craft's death.

"I'm Eliza," I say abruptly, stepping forward and addressing Tabby. "I'm - uh - Lord Montague's cousin. Do you want to take a walk with me? We could go into the garden?"

Tabby peers at me and for a moment I think she's going to say no. But finally she says "okay," in a low whisper. Her parents both give me grateful looks before they're ushered into the study by Hieronymous. He, in turn, glances over his shoulder at me quizzically, but doesn't linger.

"Come on," I say to Tabby, and lead her to the back of the house and out into the garden. She looks at the huge house with rather wide eyes, looking a bit like I must have looked when I first set foot inside it. As we stroll among the flower beds and rose bushes, I start trying to make a bit of small talk - asking about her favorite subjects at school (science), and whether she has any siblings (one older brother who's at university now). Her answers are short and terse, and I begin to wonder whether I should say anything about her grandmother. I don't want to upset her, and I don't know how to put into words what I want to say.

We walk in silence for some time, and I try to compose something heartfelt and meaningful in my head about how much I liked Mrs. Craft, how kind she was, how she made me feel welcome in this strange house when I didn't have anyone to talk to. In the meantime, I'm terrified that Tabby will say something about Mrs. Craft before I'm ready; to start asking  _why_  and  _how_  herself, or worst of all, burst into tears. But before I have anything more than "I'm so sorry" scripted out, Tabby turns to me with a frown.

"My Gran was a witch," she says.

I'm so startled by this that I halt in my tracks to stare at her.

"My dad says she wasn't. But she was," says Tabby.

It's a long moment before I can think of what I ought to say. "Did she tell you that?" is what I finally ask. Mrs. Craft had insisted to me that she was  _not_ a witch, but a diviner, though I don't know how well her granddaughter knows the distinction.

"No," says Tabby, looking at the ground and kicking a stone from the middle of the path to one side. "But I can tell things sometimes. Like Gran was a witch, and it's all right to tell you that she was a witch, because you'd believe me." She looks back up at me, anxiety shining in her eyes. "You do believe me, right?"

I try to think of what I can say that won't get me in trouble.

"Yeah," is what I eventually say. "I believe you." She gives me a look of pure relief.

"The man - the Lord - would believe me too," she says with more confidence. "But he's a little scary."

"Oh," I say. "He's not so bad when you get to know him."

"He's not your cousin either. And you don't want anyone to know."

"Now you're just showing off," I complain, and she gives me an impish grin.

"It's all right, I won't tell," she says.

"Thanks awfully," I deadpan. "How old are you, anyway?"

She pauses before saying "twelve," with an air that shows that she knows it would be childish to say that she was almost thirteen.

"So when's your birthday?"

"October seventh."

Very soon. And I think I know what she should expect in the coming year. I only hope that her parents are going to be more accepting than her grandmother's had been.

"Hey," I say, stopping in the middle of the garden path. "I think you should have these."

I fish into the handbag and bring out the wooden box of cards. "I was going to-" I start, a little guiltily, wanting to explain away my instinct to take them with me through deceit, but then I remember that she'll probably see through any lie I tell her. In fact, she can probably see through my intent now. "Never mind," I finish, flushing a little. "I just think you should have them."

Tabby takes the box from my hand and opens it to see the cards inside.

"Your Gran - grandmother - read my cards the day before she - the day before," I stutter. "She was great. She made me laugh. And even though I only knew her for a few days, I'm going to miss her my whole life."

Tabby stares up at me with wide, blue eyes and now it's me who might cry. "Thanks," she says in a small voice. I give her a smile, blinking back tears. She looks so young at this moment, but I have to remind myself that she's only four years younger than me.

"Tell you what," I say, digging in my handbag again, "if anything weird happens to you next year, and you feel like you can't talk to anybody about it, write me a letter, okay?" I produce a pen and a scrap of paper from the bag.

"Weird?" asks Tabby. "Like what?"

"You'll know it if - when it happens," I say. "Just write me if you need to, and I'll answer any questions you've got." I prop the paper up against my bag and pause for a moment before scribbling first my name, and then an address. Folding the paper, I take the box from Tabby to place the piece of paper inside, on top of the deck of cards, and hand it back. She takes it solemnly, as though I'm conferring an honor upon her.

"Think we should see if your parents are out yet?" I ask.

"Sure," says Tabby, and we walk together to the front hall. It's only a few minutes before the Crafts emerge from the study, with very different expressions than they'd worn when they'd walked in. Mr. Craft is pumping Hieronymous's hand in a chummy fashion, while his wife is dabbing her eyes with a handkerchief. Hieronymous is making an effort, but behind the forced smile I can tell that there's nothing he'd like to do more than yank his hand away and slam the study door behind him.

The Crafts collect the rest of Mrs. Craft's things, and usher their daughter - who gives me a last smile and a wave before they leave - out the front door. Once they're gone, Hieronymous rubs his eyes and asks me "any more of them today?"

"No," I reply. I'd asked Mrs. Barton, mostly to see if I'd have to run up to my room and hide immediately after the Craft family departed. But, it seems, they're the last family that needs to be handled this afternoon.

"Good; I haven't even started planning for tomorrow. I think the minister's about ready to send me to an early grave myself."

Right - tomorrow is the late Lord Montague's funeral. Hieronymous had never given me any indication that either he or his late father had been in any way religious, but apparently due to Lord Montague's standing in Parliament, there will have to be a sort of "show" funeral for his non-magical colleagues and acquaintances. Hieronymous has done his best to keep it small and quiet by holding it a local chapel rather than relocating to London. Still, it seems that several notable personages have already expressed interest in attending - and if Hieronymous hasn't started planning the service yet, he's got quite a bit of work ahead of him, and not much time in which to do it.

"Anything I can do to help?" I ask, suddenly feeling a bit guilty that I've left all of the work to him over the past week, even though nearly all of it is way beyond my current skill level.

"It's all right, I can manage," he says, with what I think is the beginning of a smile. "Thank you, just the same." He turns to head back to the study.

"Sure," I say. "See you at dinner?" From the look of things, it's going to be another of the silent, staring-into-space dinners, but I can't help looking forward to it.

"Doubtful," he says, over his shoulder. "Don't bother waiting." And he shuts the door behind him.

I take myself up the stairs slowly, despondent. I'd hoped to try talking with him over dinner about what I'd decided to do about the school year, what I'd decided when I scribbled the address on the paper I'd given to Tabby. No - if I want to be honest with myself, I'd known what I was going to decide ever since my conversation with Profesor Potsdam. The only thing I haven't decided is how to say it to him.


	26. Chapter 26

I find Mrs. Barton to tell her that neither Hieronymous nor I would be sitting down to dinner this evening, and request that she have some sandwiches and tea taken to his study, and up to my room. When she acquiesces, I go upstairs to my Impossible Room, enjoying the reddening glow from the sunset streaming through the windows while I tidy the few things that are out of place. When everything has been put in order, I go into the dressing room, open my suitcase, and slip the photograph of Hieronymous and Violet out of the pocket in which I'd stashed it. I place the photo gently on the tea table.

When the sandwich tray arrives from downstairs, I sit on the sofa to enjoy my dinner, and my current book - an overview of the life and work of the British magician and architect Nicholas Hawksmoor. Although I'd been entranced by the book this morning, I don't seem able to concentrate on it now, and I put it back down after a few pages. Instead of reading, I sit in the dimming light, finishing my dinner and going over and over what I ought to say to Hieronymous. Nothing seems right. I find my eyes straying to the photograph next to my plate, but it isn't very helpful. Those kids, having fun in London on a winter day so many years ago, don't seem to have any connection to me sitting on my own in this huge, nearly empty house.

It's getting late by the time I gather the courage to walk out of my room and down the stairs. I stop at the door to the study, but no one answers my knock, and when I open the door to go in, it's dark and empty. I turn and start searching the rooms on the first floor, finding most of them unoccupied.

When I open the doors to the drawing room, I see that it's partly lit, so I walk in. After a minute's search I find Hieronymous stretched out on one of the far sofas, lying on his side with his head propped on one arm. He isn't asleep, but his eyes are half-closed and unfocused. There's a small glass of yellow-colored wine on the table in front of him, but it looks as though he's barely touched it. A book -  _Our Exagmination Round His Factification for Incamination of Work in Progress_ \- lies, open and face-down, beside the glass.

"Hi," I say, standing over Hieronymous, behind the sofa. He blinks, and fixes his eyes on mine. "Drinking by yourself again?"

He stretches a bit, turning toward me. "It's a Chateau d'Yquem 1997," he says, his voice thick with fatigue. "Greedy sot had an entire case of it in the cellar. I assume he was going to use my body to drink it, so I might as well comply with his last wishes." There's a bitter edge to this statement that I don't like at all, but then his tone lightens. "You can have some, if you like. It was an extraordinary year."

"No, thanks," I say. "I need to talk to you, actually."

"So talk," he says.

" _To_  you, not  _at_  you," I respond. "Wake up, please."

"I'm awake," he says, with the peevish air of a child being woken for school. "Sit."

I look around for a place, but all of the sofas and chairs are far enough away that I'd have to drag one halfway across the room to speak comfortably. So instead I cross to the front of Hieronymous' sofa and sit down in the space where he's bent at the hip. He doesn't say anything but follows me with his eyes as I settle on the edge of the cushion.

_Deep breath_.

"Okay, first off," I say, "I have something to give you that I should have given you a while ago. Your father left it for me to find because he thought it would upset me. And it did. Upset me, I mean. I should have told you about it, but I didn't. Actually, I lied to you." As I say this I feel sick with shame, but I have to finish. "And I'm really, really sorry. I shouldn't have done it. But the thing is, if this-" and here I wave my hand to indicate the pair of us- "whatever it is - is going to work, I need to be able to tell you things without getting scared that you'll lock me in some dungeon. Okay?"

He doesn't reply, but waits for me to finish.

"Well. Anyway," I say, unnerved by the silence. "Here." And I take the photograph out of the pocket of my dress and hold it out for him.

He takes it by the edges, carefully, just as I'd handled it on the day I found it. I watch as he stares at the image on the photograph, taking it in for a long time. I wait for his reaction, but the moment seems to stretch out I get more and more nervous. Will he be angry? Upset? Will he threaten to shut me in a dungeon?

Finally, he reaches out and places the photograph on the table next to his book and wine glass, no longer looking at it, and not looking at me, either. And my stomach drops a little - he's going to check out again, I think, just stare into space without registering anything else I say to him. I open my mouth, trying to think of what to say to try to bring him back, when he starts to speak.

"There are times," he says, "when I think I'd just dreamed her up."

For a second, the urge to tell him that I'm sorry, or that it wasn't his fault, is overwhelming, but I know that's the wrong thing. So instead, I say "she was really beautiful."

"Yes," he says, "she was."

I swallow, then plunge ahead. "So, second, I wanted to tell you that I'm going to go back home. And that I've decided I'm going back to Iris for next year."

He looks at me, consternated. "Why would you go back? Petunia used you."

"She saved me, too. And you. I guess saving you was kind of the point."

"I seem to require a lot of rescuing lately," he mutters, still frowning.

"I don't really mind," I say, trying to suppress a smile.

"Still, there are other schools. There's one in California. And one in London. If you wanted to stay in England, that is."

He's making such an effort to sound nonchalant that it's all I can do to keep from grinning outright. "Thanks. But I think I need to go back. I mean-" I stop, trying to figure out how to put what I've been pondering into words. "I'm glad your father - aunt - is dead and you're not. And maybe Professor Potsdam did what she had to do to save you from him. Even if I don't agree with it, or if I think she should have saved Mrs. Craft and the rest of the guests. But I don't  _know_. I don't know enough about what she could have done - or what she  _should_ have done. So I need to learn the rest of what Professor Potsdam has to teach me, and figure it out for myself."

He considers this. "I don't like it," he says.

"You don't need to like it; it's my decision."

"That's fair," he admits.

"And anyway," I say, "it's probably not a good idea for me to stay here."

"Oh?"

"Yeah, I mean - well, I guess I-" I stutter, as my words fail me. "I just-" I start again, but then give up. We both assess each other for a minute before I think  _to hell with it_ , lean over, and kiss him on the corner of his mouth.

He doesn't react at all - he doesn't move and keeps his eyes fixed on where I had been. I pull back a bit, and then kiss him again, briefly but full on the mouth. He still doesn't move an inch, so I try again, catching his lower lip between my teeth. But he still doesn't move.

_Fine_ , I think,  _I take the hint_ , but I can't resist one last try, so I kiss him again. This time, just as I'm about to pull away, he sighs and opens his mouth under mine. And just like that, we're kissing each other.

We slowly wind together, my fingers lacing into his hair while his arm tightens around my waist. With his other hand, he pushes my hair away from my face, then strokes my cheek. The tips of his fingers track an electric current across my skin. There's a lingering apricot-sweetness in his mouth from the wine, and the taste seems to infuse through me, overcoming the last of my reservations and blotting out the bit of me that's still convinced that this is a bad decision.

I have to shift once to get a better purchase on the edge of the sofa, and as I brush against him he makes a low, urgent sound in the back of his throat. He tilts my head up to run his mouth along my jaw, reminding me of that strange first night in London, and causing my breath to come in short gasps.

But when I lean forward to kiss him again, Hieronymous' expression is troubled. He stops me, holding the tips of his fingers against my mouth. "Thank you," he says in a not-too-steady voice. "you've convinced me."

"I wasn't finished," I say, voice muffled against his fingers, my breathing still shallow but slowing.

" _I'm_  finished," he says. "And I agree - your staying is a bad idea." He pushes my face with his hand, forcing me to sit up straight again. "So please go away, and don't come back until you're - I don't know. Twenty-six."

"Twenty-six?" I say, aware that whining about it makes me sound more childish, unable to help it. "That's ages away."

"It goes faster than you think," says Hieronymous with a faint smile.

"But-" I start, then stop when Hieronymous raises his hand to interrupt me.

"Look," he starts. "I suppose you've figured out by now that I've grown rather fond of you despite your age and status as a student-"

"Former student," I interrupt, but he ignores me.

"But I can't just dismiss the fact that you're only seventeen. It's too young and-" he cuts off, searching for whatever words he needs, but they seem to be failing him, too. "I can't," he finishes.

"You didn't seem to mind so much that night in London," I say, more out of pique than a desire to talk him out of his decision.

He shrugs. "I was-"

"Smashed," I finish.

He makes a face at me. "I was going to say 'engaging in poor decision-making' but if you're going to be uncharitable..." And then neither of us can keep a straight face. I start giggling, and he gives me an almost genuine smile, which he hides quickly, lifting his hands to his face to rub at his eyes.

"It was horrible of me," he admits. "I apol-"

"No," I interrupt. "I think I'm putting a moratorium on apologies for the evening. It was a rough enough week without having to figure out how to be married to each other on top of it."

Hieronymous stops rubbing his eyes. "In my admittedly limited experience," he says, "all that 'figuring out' just consists of people blindly bashing into each other. Sometimes it's a fit, but most of the time they just wreck themselves."

"It's not exactly Oscar Wilde, but that does sort of make sense," I say.

"But," he continues, and the tone in his voice makes my smile drop. "If you're going to wreck yourself on someone at seventeen, it can't be me. Not again." His eyes flick away from me, then, and he says in a half-whisper, "Not you."

I don't have the right words to describe the look on his face as he says this, but I can't stand to look at it for very long. So I look at my hands instead and ask, "and if it's a fit?"

"Then a few years isn't going to change that."

"Okay," I say, "I can live with that. But I'm not waiting until I'm twenty-six."

He doesn't say anything but raises his eyebrows when I look back at him.

"Your father told me something the other day," I say, trying to hoist the mood by putting some cheer into my voice. "If I want to study magical history, I ought to go to Oxford. Even if he did try to kill me, that's no reason why I shouldn't listen to his advice, so I'm going to apply."

Hieronymous's eyebrows knit. "You're serious?" I don't say anything, until he finally warns "You'll have to be performing at the top of your class to get in."

"I can do it," I reply, trying to sound more confident than I actually feel. There is Minnie Cochran to contend with, after all. But then, I think, it isn't going to work unless I want to go to Oxford for myself - not because I'll be closer to Hieronmyous, or even because I want to remember Mrs. Craft by studying her pet subject. I consider for a moment, asking myself what it is I really want.

"I can do it," I repeat, my trepidation suddenly gone, feeling the beginnings of a smile on my face.

"Very well - if you get in, you can ring me up," Hieronymous says, shifting and settling himself on the sofa. "But I won't guarantee I'll answer."

"You'll answer," I say. "We have too much in common now."

"Is that right?" he says.

"Mm-hmm. For example, if I brought you home to meet my parents, they'd probably try to kill you, too."

Hieronymous blinks at me twice, and then starts laughing. I grin at him, and after a moment, start snickering myself. I feel buoyed by seeing him smile for real.

"In that case," he says, "do me a favor and take care of yourself while you're over there. You can't always count on a Petunia  _ex machina_ to go about rescuing you all the time."

"That goes for you, too," I retort. "I thought it was you who was requiring all the rescuing lately."

"Don't remind me," he says, groaning a bit, but he's still smiling.

"Are you going to be okay?" I ask, impulsively.

"Hm?"

I pause, nervous, but remember that I'm over him getting angry at me if I say something he doesn't like.

"It's - you've just been checking out, the past couple of days. One minute we're having a nice chat about dragons and the next you've got this thousand-yard stare. It's like having dinner with a zombie. I know you have a lot to think about, and I know you're tired, but I feel like one day I'm going to walk up to you and there's going to be nothing there." This is more than I'd meant to say, but all the worry that had been building up in me the past few days comes spilling out. And whatever the consequences are, I do feel better having said what I think.

He doesn't get angry or upset. He just looks at me thoughtfully for a minute before saying "I didn't mean to frighten you. I suppose I've just been trying to figure out what the hell I'm going to do now."

"Yeah?" I ask.

He looks pensive for another minute, then continues. "My father was always trying to sell me on the concept of keeping the family going; making sure I'd be able to take over when he passed. And I'd never wanted it, even when I thought he just meant me inheriting his estate and position - never mind him taking my body to continue his own life. And even though I managed to get out of the worst of it, what am I left with? In America I had a life - not much, and I didn't even like it most of the time, but at least it was mine. Now I'm taking over the family titles, seats and positions after all, and I have no idea what I'm going to do with them."

"Well," I say, "you could probably do whatever you want. I mean, what about setting up that school you were thinking about? No one's stopping you now, if that's what you want to do. Though you never seemed to like teaching all that much."

"Oh, I enjoyed teaching," he says. "It was the students I couldn't stand." He says this so dryly that I glare at him for a full minute before realizing he's joking. I smack him on the arm - not too hard, but he starts laughing again.

"Saying it out loud, I sound pretty awful, don't I?" he says.

"Yeah, honestly, if you want to start a new life I can think of worse things to do than inherit a whole estate. You don't have to go into Parliament though, do you? No offense, but I don't think you would make much of a politician."

"If I let it alone, I suppose that spell of his will ensure that they'll forget about the succession," he admits, "and the House of Lords will just hold a by-election to re-seat his position. I'm not sure how well the magical community will take not having a representative in the House of Lords, but I don't think I'd make much of a politician either. There's a few of us in the House of Commons, at least - that might have to hold us for now."

"Nothing to worry about, then," I say.

"I suppose not," he replies. "But then again-"

He cuts off and stays quiet for so long that I wonder if he hasn't checked out again after all. But then he starts speaking again, albeit much more slowly.

"I'm probably going to be spending the rest of my life trying to sort out what was real and what was some memory planted in my head. My mother for example - did she really leave? Did he kill her once he'd gotten me off her? Should I try to find her?" He shrugs. "I can't remember what she looked like." He pauses again. "I don't even know her first name."

That's a hard, horrible thought, and I don't have any idea what I could say - if anything - that could ease it. And then, for the first time since that day when I flew over the hedge during a game of tag, I begin to realize what it really means to live in a magical world. I had always thought that it would be a marvellous thing to be able to do spells, but I never took into account the fact that there would be people out there - cruel, possibly evil people - with the power to upend your life with a flick of their fingers. To make you forget the people who should be first in your mind, or to cover up their crimes or murders. And, unbidden, the voice of Lord Montague comes into my head. " _I could make you forget it wasn't him in the first place_."

No, he couldn't do that, I think. I'd know within five minutes if someone was trying to pose as Hieronymous Grabiner. But then, if Lord Grabiner had been skilled enough to make his son forget Violet's cannibalized soul-

I push the thought away, but even so, a tiny fissure of doubt has opened inside of me, and I can't close it again. When you know that any magician is potentially capable of changing your memories, who can you trust? How can you continue living your life without knowing what memories are real and what aren't? I press my hand to my sternum again feeling something - not physical pain, but a strange sensation of being slightly separated, as though I have to hold myself together.

Hieronymous interrupts my train of thought, saying "but it's no good whinging about it. I'll have to figure it out myself. But I'm not going anywhere, so please don't worry." He grants me another smile, but it's hollow. Still, I find it comforting in a way. Even if I don't have an answer to my doubts, Professor Potsdam was right about one thing - Lord Montague is gone, and here we two are.

"I'm going to miss you," I say. "Are you going to keep writing me?"

"If you write to me, it would be discourteous of me not to respond," he says.

"Good," I say lightly, trying not to indicate what a wrench it is to say good bye. "Keep writing, and then I'll see you if - when I get to Oxford. And then - well. We'll see."

"We'll see," he echoes. And there's nothing left to say.

I sit there for what feels like a long time, wondering if I should just get up and go to bed, but not wanting to leave just yet. And then I feel the slightest pressure against my cheek - he's reached out with the tips of his fingers, touching my face lightly as if to see if he'd dreamed me up too - as if I were as delicate as a soap bubble, something that would burst and vanish at the slightest touch. I catch his hand with mine as he pulls it away, lacing my fingers into his and squeezing them to show him that I'm really here - strong and whole. When I do it, he smiles at me, and the smile reaches his eyes.

So I sit there with him until his fingers go slack in mine, and his breathing slows. And only when I know he won't wake up at the movement, I extract my hand from his and put myself to bed.


	27. Chapter 27

In the morning, Hieronymous knocks on my door and tells me that if I'm ready, he'll take me to the airport.

"Oh, that's all right," I start, "you've got too much to do today-" but he waves me off.

"The minister and Mr. Lewis have everything under control," he says, and looks amused when my eyes widen at the mention of Mr. Lewis. He doesn't answer my unasked question, though, just says "downstairs in an hour, if that suits," and walks off.

I shove my clothes and other things into my suitcase (casting a regretful eye upon my unfinished book about Nicholas Hawksmoor, which I'm forced to leave behind), then go looking for Mrs. Barton and some of the other staff members to say my good-byes, making sure to arrive in the foyer at the appointed time.

Mr. Davies drives again, and we sit in the back of Hieronymous's black sedan as we pull away from Yeavering Hall. I watch it recede into the distance with a mix of relief and regret.

"What do you think you'll do with it?" I ask.

"Set the thing alight and watch it burn," he says immediately, putting an unprintable expletive between "the" and "thing."

"Language!" I gasp in mock-shock, putting on my British-actress-in-a-regency-film accent. "Is that any way to behave in polite society?"

"You'll forgive me if I don't consider you and Mr. Davies to be a cross-section of 'polite society,'" Hieronymous says. I catch Mr. Davies's glance in the rear view mirror, and although he stays as silent as ever, he rolls his eyes at me. I grin.

"I was considering selling it to one of the hotel companies, actually," Hieronymous says. "Quite a few of the old estates have gone that route. And it isn't as though I'm going to live there. I've spent too much time trying to get out of that house to move back in. I'd like to live somewhere-"

"That fits," I finish, without thinking, and Hieronymous gives me a puzzled look.

"That's a way of putting it," he says. "It'll give a bit of extra income. I'm not getting out of that estate tax now, and I could use the money if I decide to set up that school in the future."

I nod. "It'll be nice to let people in to see the house - it's really something else."

"Hm," says Hieronymous, noncommittally.

"What time's the service today?" I ask, changing the subject.

"I managed to stall it until two, for all the people coming up from London. I'll be back in plenty of time, don't worry."

"And Mr. Lewis?"

At this, Hieronymous smiles slightly, and then performs the spell that lets us talk without Mr. Davies hearing. Once it's done, I ask "so what is he? Besides horrible, I mean."

"He calls himself a 'genius' - not in the sense of someone very intelligent, but a sort of spirit from the Otherworld. I think he's just posturing, however. It would be more accurate to call him a familiar, as he's a spirit obligated to follow the orders of the head of the Grabiner family."

"Which is you," I say. No wonder he was so upset that morning we returned from the Otherworld. He was probably having a marvelous time engaging in all sorts of horrible behavior under the late Lord Montague's rule, and now that Hieronymous has taken over, his sources of entertainment must be severly curtailed.

"I wouldn't trust him as far as I could spit him," says Hieronymous, "but he does come in useful for funeral planning. And he's absolutely miserable about it." He gives a very nasty smirk at this.

"Serves him right," I say, "but be careful with him, okay?"

"Of course," says Hieronymous, but I still don't feel quite right about letting Mr. Lewis stay with him, considering his track record with creatures from the Otherworld. Still, there isn't anything I can do - I'll have to trust Hieronymous to take care of himself for now.

We get to Newcastle International Airport in about an hour, and I let Hieronymous buy me a ticket to travel to Heathrow and then on to Logan. "First class?" I remark on taking the tickets. "You didn't have to."

"Call it my last donation to Iris Academy," he says. "Petunia did say that the school would pay your expenses, after all."

"All right," I say. "Thanks."

He walks me to where the security line starts, and we both stop before I get into the line. We make an odd pair among the rest of the crowd saying their good-byes, me in my jeans and hoodie, and him in a black suit for the funeral this afternoon.

"Well," I say, "thanks. It was very... educational."

"Hm." Hieronymous's mouth twists a bit. "I can only hope that with me gone, your further education will be a bit more sedate."

"Maybe," I say, shifting my suitcase from one hand to the other. When I do that, there's a flash of red in the light, and I start.

"Oh I say, "I forgot." I put my suitcase down and twist the ourobouros ring off of my left hand. "Here. Thanks for letting me wear it."

"No," he says, putting his hands up and looking strangely flustered. "Please keep it. I don't have any use for it, and anyway, it suits you." When I don't respond he adds, questioning, "Happy birthday?"

I have to smile at how awkward he's acting, and I consider the ring again. It's true that I'd gotten used to wearing it, and it would make a pretty interesting souvenir of my trip.

"Thanks," I say, "but I don't think I want it as a birthday present." And because I can't resist, I add "do you follow?" He doesn't say anything, but raises his eyebrows to indicate that yes, he follows. He takes the ring from me, slipping it into the pocket of his suit jacket.

"Right, well," I say, "I'll see you, I guess."

"In January," he finishes.

"January?" I say, sudden hope rising in me, but then I realize, and my voice falls. "For the divorce, right?"

"For the divorce. Right," he echoes.

"Do we have to?" I ask, knowing the answer.

"What do you think the  _Daily Mail_ would do if they found out that the newest Viscount Montague was married to a seventeen year old American high school student?" he asks.

"They'd skewer you," I admit.

"They'd  _crucify_ me," he replies, which gets me smiling again. "I only just kept that carbon monoxide charade from becoming a full-blown scandal; I don't think I have it in me to keep this one quiet, too."

"That's fair, I guess," I say.

"It won't be so bad," he says, and then, looking away, "I could take you to dinner after, if you wanted."

This turns my smile into a grin. "You're not serious."

"Why shouldn't I be serious?" he asks, still not meeting my eyes.

"You wouldn't even have lunch with me at our wedding and now you're asking me on a date for our divorce?"

"I didn't say it was a date," he says, testily, but I ignore him.

"So where are we going? The Glen?"

He grimaces. "Not so close to the school, if you don't mind. I don't care to have either of us constitute the subject of further student gossip. How do you feel about... I don't know. Burlington. It's not exactly a culinary mecca, but-"

"I feel," I say, interrupting him, "optimistic." He finally meets my eyes, and we stand for a moment, smiling at each other.

I take two quick steps forward, put my hand on his arm to steady myself, stand on my toes and kiss him on the cheek. "Bye, then."

He doesn't kiss me back, but for a fraction of a second, he touches his cheek to mine. "Good bye," he says, his mouth hidden in my hair.

And I turn away from my future ex-husband, pick up my suitcase, and take my first step towards home.

The End


End file.
